


painted sunsets

by kitsunei



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesiac Castiel (Supernatural), Bittersweet Ending, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, I Made My Beta Cry™, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mentioned Alleged Suicide, Missing Persons, Murder, Old Friends, POV Dean Winchester, Past Character Death, Supportive Found Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-29 02:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21402346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunei/pseuds/kitsunei
Summary: It is believed that when someone dies, their soul paints the sunset that day as their final goodbye to this world. At first, it was laughable to believe such a thing, but ever since Sam went missing in Sioux Falls two months ago, Dean has been waiting for him to come home. They say he’s dead, but Dean holds out, watching the sunsets and hoping Sam is still alive.When Sam’s old college roommate, Castiel Novak, shows up at Dean’s doorstep - with no memory of what happened to him after he’d crossed paths with Sam the night Sam went missing, Dean thinks he might have a piece to the puzzle that is Sam’s disappearance. Yet, as more is revealed about Sam’s mysterious death and just how Castiel is connected to it, Dean is forced to confront the darkness shrouding his past in ways he never thought he would.Is Castiel, the trench-coated amnesiac whose past is intertwined with Dean’s in more ways than one, the person who will help Dean finally move forward in his life? Or will their newfound relationship be the key to bringing the secrets hidden in the shadows out into the light?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Gilda, Dean Winchester/Cassie Robinson (mentioned), Donna Hanscum/Jody Mills, Ellen Harvelle/Bobby Singer, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Past Charlie Bradbury/Anna Milton - Relationship
Comments: 58
Kudos: 54
Collections: DCBB 2019, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. painted memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Long time no see! 
> 
> Welcome to the bittersweet tale of a fic I’ve been suffering over since June! This is by far the longest thing I have ever written, and it has been scrapped and rewritten so many times, I’ve lost count. However, I’ve come to love the story for what it is, and I hope you get something from reading it. The tags are a blast, but most of the warnings mentioned aren’t gone into great detail within the fic itself. They’re solely for backstory and are referenced throughout the plot. As you may have guessed, painted sunsets isn’t a happy story. It is a story about grief & healing, about losing hope and finding it again. Expect some feelings. Angsty feelings.
> 
> Moving on, I shall do my proper thank-yous in the end notes, but to start, kudos to this year’s DCBB mods, diamond and muse. Thank you for giving us another grand year of Destiel Christmas!  
Thank you also to my bang partner, Amyeyl, for your lovely art! Go check it out over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428293) and show her some love!
> 
> Lastly, there are no hard feelings from me if you choose to stop reading this fic at any point. It’s an angst-fest, and that isn’t for everyone! There are plenty of fluffier, happier fics to pick from this year’s DCBB harvest, so go ham and support other destiel creators! Do what’s best for you. 
> 
> \- Kit :)

_“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.” - Kurt Vonnegut_

\---

As Dean comes home from a long day at the office, the golden glow of fading sunlight floods his vision, spilling through the bay windows in his living room. Streaks of soft peach and fiery orange burn in the dawn of the sunset and Dean can’t stop admiring it, kicking off his boots and making his way down to the living room.

It’s warm in his little Victorian cottage, the halls alive with evening light. Hung up on the expanse of the wall beside the kitchen archway is a collection of numerous photographs, their glossiness reflecting into Dean’s eyes as he lumbers by. He stops for a second, gazing at his graduation portrait, seeing his younger self decked out in the usual gown and cap and grinning like a goon at Sam and his girlfriend, Jess.

It was one damn special day Dean will always look back on with a coffee-bitter heart. Sam was so proud of him he cried during the ceremony, the giant sap, and pulled Dean in for biggest hug of his life (Dean felt like his ribs were going to pop out of his chest like a jack-in-the-box, not that he’d cared), and there may have been a few manly tears on Dean’s part, who knows. The sugary nostalgia makes sad memories easier to swallow because Dean and Sam had a shortage of purely happy moments in their lives. This was one of them.

To this day, Dean can’t comprehend how his ordinary ass left San Francisco with a freaking Masters of all things, yet thirteen years later, here he is, having settled in an old house among the quiet suburbs of Lebanon, Kansas. He bought the place with Sam, and they lived together until Sam went missing on Christmas Eve last year. Jess even stayed with them for a few months.

The house is too empty without Sam, without his dumbass dog, Riot, without Jess, his better half. Exhausted, Dean rips his attention away from the framed photographs before his mind takes a downward spiral and with a grunt, flops onto the worn-in couch nearby.

As a kid, his mother would always say to him that when someone died and their soul passed on, God, or whoever was up there, would let them paint the sky for all to see as their one final farewell to the earth. Judging from the serene spectacle looming above the horizon outside, the someone it belongs to must’ve died at peace.

Dean decided to take on his mother’s theory the day she died, back when Dean was ten. Her lilac blaze of a sunset had him awestruck, yet it was warm with a soothing familiarity. There had been something so strange, unsettling beyond belief about the vivid image, how it was etched on his memory for years to come, that Dean knew Mom had said goodbye to them through it. You can’t bullshit death. Sam was six when it happened, and Dean still remembers Sam asking him why the sunset felt like it was Mom’s. Ever since, the corresponding tale became the single superstition Dean bothers to acknowledge without scoffing at its stupidity.

Pulling out his phone, he sits up and snaps a picture of the sky, adding it to the album named ‘sunsets’. This sunset, in particular, marks the forty-ninth addition to the digitised album. The first photo in it is the sunset born the evening Sam went missing on December 24th, 2014, to be exact. Dean had spent hours holed up on the front porch, watching, waiting for Sam and Jess to return from their anniversary retreat in Sioux Falls, and she returned alone, asking if Sam had come home early. When Dean told her no, they realised something was wrong, and they filed a missing persons report the moment they got word from Bobby and Ellen how Sam never came back to their house after going out that afternoon.

Each one of those forty-nine sunsets Dean has viewed since Sam’s reported death hasn’t seemed... right. Whenever Dean watches a sunset and doesn’t, well, sense it's ‘painted’ by Sam (as if Dean could call himself a psychic), Dean thinks of their mother’s words. He’s convinced it’s a valid sign Sam isn’t dead, and the sunsets continue to be an unexpected source of hope for Dean. Sam can’t be gone for good. It’s too soon. Too sudden.

Peeling his body off the sofa, Dean ambles over to the kitchen nestled in the west wing of the house, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and turning on the coffeemaker. It’s muscle memory at this point, Dean doesn’t have to pay close attention to what he’s doing. He’s lost in the confines of his mind, his wandering thoughts.

He shivers, shaking his head as the memory resurfaces of Sam joking that there had to be a ghost camping out in the west wing, as the area remains forever freezing cold. Each time, Dean would roll his eyes and turn up the thermostat a few degrees higher, telling Sam to man up and grow a pair before he goes all soft and the ghouls get him.

The coffee machine beeps and Dean is startled out of his head and back into reality, yawning as he slips the mug into his hands and takes an absentminded sip. The sky outside has fallen into the shadows, the dusk settling into twilight. If he’d had work tomorrow, Dean would soon be heading to bed, but tonight Dean can stay up and watch his TV shows with no concern for getting up early the next morning. He’s already got Dr. Sexy MD loaded up on his television, ready to watch whenever he sees fit.

Well, not until Dean tends to Sam’s vegetable garden, that is. Damn, Dean really should’ve done that_ before _kicking off his boots and getting all cosy. It’s been a long day, in saying that. Sam’s garden isn’t in dire need of attention, but it is Sam’s garden, and he adores his _‘plant children’_ with a similar intensity to how Dean adores his priceless heirloom of a classic car, Baby. Although, he will admit, looking after cars? Far more straightforward than babysitting plants will ever be, the unpredictable green bastards.

Trudging out into the dusk, Dean lugs out a watering can, filling it up with the garden hose. The whistling wind threatens to cut through his shirt and burrow into his bones, drawing a violent shiver out of him.

“Fuck, when did it get so cold?” Dean mutters, clenching his teeth. Grabbing the watering can, he pours it over the garden plants, breathing in the musk of damp earth and the hint of springtime laced within a passing zephyr. Sam’s plants are thriving, thanks to Dean’s valiant efforts. The tomato plants, the celery, the rhubarb, whatever else Sam planted in this plot of soil, all of it. To see his garden looking so good, Sam will be over the fucking moon. Dean knows it.

Why else would Dean bother with such a boring thing, a time-consuming pastime better suited to a more patient soul than Dean, for starters? Sam did say gardening gave him time to think on things, to reflect, all of those therapist-y kinda catchphrases Sam picked up from his counsellor. Of course, Dean sees where his brother was coming from, standing out in the cold outdoors, shivering to death with an empty watering can in hand, yet, Dean has his own tried-and-tested methods of feeling and pondering shit. It’s simple. He doesn’t.

Yeah, gardening can suck it after Sam returns.

Shutting the back door behind him, Dean finds himself in his widespread kitchen, pulling off his muddy boots for good this time. To the left of the kitchen are the three downstairs bedrooms, the closest one being Sam’s, and to the right of the kitchen is the wooden archway leading into the open-planned living room, which also encompasses the minimal dining area. Dean has always liked the spacious feel of the place.

There’s a growl in his stomach. Perched on the kitchen bench, Dean ponders on whether he should cook for himself or order in. Drawing library blueprints and consulting with grumpy clients knocked the energy out of him today, so coming to a momentous, yet impulsive decision, Dean calls up the local pizza place and orders himself a large pizza for dinner. It’s a Thursday. He deserves take out.

While on the phone, he almost considers ordering two pizzas, yet decides against it in favour of cracking open the new tub of cookie dough ice-cream he’d left in the freezer. Walking into the lounge, Dean starts an episode of his favourite show and picks away at the tub of Ben and Jerry’s in his lap as he waits for his pizza. There’s a solid knock at the door, and Dean springs into action, jogging down the hall in his slippers.

_‘That was quick? Like, scarily, impressively quick.’_

However, Dean isn’t going to complain about the prompt delivery. Opening the door, he pauses. His ice-cream tub tucked in one arm and a spoon in the other hand, all Dean can do is pray that this pizza delivery guy or chick doesn’t judge him too hard.

“Hello–” The mysterious stranger on Dean’s doorstep begins, the pizza box in his hands.

“–Are you the pizza man?” Dean interrupts him, cocking his head to the side.

_‘Who is this guy? He’s not wearing a uniform, but a suit and tie? Please don’t be a Jehovah’s witness, please don’t be a Jehovah’s witness.’_

The dark-haired man seems familiar to Dean. He’s seen that face before, but the name isn’t budging from the tip of his tongue. Light eyes. Strong nose. Sharp cheekbones. Cleft chin. Nice eyebrows. The man’s pink lips pull into a tiny frown, and Dean kicks himself for his shitty memory.

“No, I am not the pizza man.” The guy answers Dean in a plain tone, his eyes trained on the doormat below him.

“But you’re… holding... the pizza?” Dean raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe.

“Um… I am, yes.” The man glances around, seeming somewhat shy. “I bought it for you from the delivery man on my way in, but do you... remember me? I… uh, flatted with your brother and Jessica Moore while I was studying at Stanford. About… Christ, thirteen years ago.”

“Yeah, I do remember you.” Dean squints, racking his brains for the memory. The man’s features paired with the god-ugly trench coat and the black slacks trigger a lightbulb in Dean’s brain and he gasps in realization.

He does know this guy.

“Holy shit! That’s the one! Castiel, right? Sam’s buddy?”

The last time Dean had seen Castiel Novak had been over a decade ago. Dean had been slaving over his architecture degree, and Sam had just met Jess. Might-Be-Castiel laces his hands together, nodding.

“Yes! Castiel Novak, at your service. Forgive me, but, you’ve… aged–well. You look well, uh, good, Dean.”

“Aw, shucks, man. So have you. We’re not college kids anymore, after all,” Dean laughs, patting Cas on the shoulder. “Anyway, glad to have ya here, buddy. Long time no see.”

Thirteen years really changes a man, it seems.

The sun now hidden beneath the horizon, the low light of the rising moon and the dim glow of his porch lighting doesn’t give Dean much to work with in terms of cataloguing Castiel’s face in great detail, but his voice? God, it’s matured from something full and smoky into something sinful, rumbling low and smooth. Attempting to focus, Dean opens the door for Castiel, stepping aside.

“Glad to see you too, Dean.”

Raising an eyebrow, Dean smiles.

_‘He remembered my name? Wasn’t expecting that.’_

“Well, are you gonna come inside with my dinner or are you expecting me to pay you?”

“You don’t need to pay me back, you’re fine,” Castiel hands Dean the pizza and steps into the house. “Thank you, Dean. I know this is unexpected.”

“No problem, Mr. Pizza Man. Thank _you_,” Dean leads Cas into the living-room, patting the seat beside him. “What exactly brings you here, huh?”

Castiel freezes in thought, nodding to himself.

“Right, of course,” Cas mutters, and Dean fights the urge to coo at his flustered expression. He looks up at Dean once more, holding his gaze for a moment. “Is Sam here? He told me to come to visit him once I was in Lebanon again.”

Stiffening, Dean places his pizza box on the coffee table.

“Jesus, Cas. You don’t know?” Dean stares at the television, sucking in a deep breath. Castiel shakes his head. “Sam… he’s missing.”

“What?” says Castiel, mouth agape. “Are you serious? Sam’s missing? How long?”

“Completely serious, Cas. He’s… he’s been off-the-grid for forty-nine days and counting. Everyone thinks Sam’s kicked the bucket, but I know my brother better than anyone. He’s out there somewhere, just... lost in the woods or somethin’.” says Dean. The sunsets have become a way of keeping track of the days Sam has been missing.

Frozen in thought, Castiel frowns.

“I… I had no idea. I’m sorry to remind you of such a tragic thing, Dean.”

His tone is apologetic, sallow with emotion. Castiel’s long fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, his eyes unable to meet Dean’s for more than a few seconds. Compared to Cas’ old habit of staring at Dean with the intensity of a psychic, this feels… kinda… unusual in terms of what Dean had gotten used to back in the day.

“It’s alright. As I said, you didn’t know.” Dean shrugs him off, biting into a piece of pizza. “Actually, when did you last see Sam, Cas? Was he cool?”

After a few weeks had passed and the authorities decided to call off the search for Sam, much to Dean’s anger, they had come to the resolve that due to Sam’s history with mental illness, he must’ve committed suicide.

When Dean had last seen him, Sam seemed like he was on top of the world. He’d just found out about Jess’ pregnancy in August, and the law firm he worked for had given him a generous pay raise. So, if Sam really has done what the authorities claim he did, Dean would’ve missed all the signs. It’s a given that Sam didn’t tell Dean all of his secrets, regardless of how close they were, but still. The guilt of not being there for Sam when he needed it the most would eat Dean alive. Castiel clears his throat, and Dean looks over at him, waiting for a response.

“I ran into Sam on… Christmas Eve, I think? I’m not entirely certain, as the memories after that event are rather… hazy to me. I was in an accident, you see.”

“An accident?” Dean tilts his head, looking at Cas.

“An accident. Yeah, I woke up in the middle of a field, not knowing how I’d even gotten there.”

“You’re kidding!” Dean’s eyes widen. “Sorry, dude. Sounds rough.” Dean finds himself feeling sorry for him, offering Cas a slice of pizza in consolation. Leaning forward on the couch, Castiel waves him off, and Dean sits back, eating the piece himself.

“Eh, more for me, then,” says Dean. “Seriously, though. You good?”

“I’m good,” says Castiel, shrugging. “A few gaps in my memory now and again, but I’d say it’s mostly intact.”

“That’s good to hear.”

That would explain why Cas can’t remember if Sam went missing or not. Amnesia. In case Dean needs any more proof, Castiel’s just arrived at Dean’s front door two months too late, looking for Sam like he’d been invited to do. That accident must’ve been one hell of a mess to leave Cas in a state like this. Blinking a few times, Castiel nods, pursing his lips.

“Dean, please know that I’m so… sorry for bringing up such a sensitive matter. I can’t imagine this is easy.”

“Like hell, it isn’t, Cas. But, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you right now.”

Sighing, Castiel rubs his temples.

“Well, in that case, I guess I’m a little–” he trails off, licking his lips in a cautious selection of words, “–shaken? About everything.”

“Amnesia does that to ya, I’ve heard.” Dean chomps down on yet another slice of pizza. Shrugging off his coat, Castiel sighs.

“Unfortunately, you’re right. I don’t recommend trying it,” Castiel says, standing up and stretching. Wandering over towards the kitchen, his coat tucked into the crook of his arm, he continues, “May I go get a glass of water?”

Catching up to Castiel, Dean nods in response, following him through to the west wing. Dean shudders at the sudden blast of icy air, balancing the pizza box in his hands. Castiel, on the other hand, doesn’t even shiver, striding past Dean like it’s nothing.

_‘What the fuck, dude? Do you have any sense of temperature? You born in Alaska or something?’_

Resting against the kitchen counter, Dean observes as Cas gets himself a tall glass of water, sipping it wordlessly. Poor guy must be shell-shocked.

However, under the soft ambience of the kitchen lights, Dean can get a better look at Cas. His features are just as sharp as Dean recalls them being, except Cas’ hair has gone curlier with time, his smile has softened, and his eyes sure haven’t lost their deep intensity. From what Dean can see, Cas has well and truly filled out since his college days, subtly noting the way Cas’ white button-down is pulled taut across his broad shoulders.

_When did nerdy little Castiel Novak of all people get so... buff? _Not that Dean is complaining, exactly. Pretty people are made for appreciating.

“You know, I did the same thing when I found out Sam was missing. Uh, except it was whiskey instead of water. Typical Winchester style an’ all.” says Dean, and Castiel flinches at the name, the action grabbing Dean’s attention.

_‘What was that all about?’_

Dean tilts his head in concern. There’s a flash of cobalt and he’s lodged in Castiel’s line of sight.

_‘Are you okay?’_

Expecting Cas to respond, Dean holds his gaze. Cas answers with a tight smile and the conversation fades into the familiar haze of the night. Dean polishes off his late dinner waiting for Cas to finish his glass of water. Neither of them speaks much, but the companionable silence is welcome.

If only Sam were here with them, rambling away with a hot cup of coffee in hand. He would’ve been ecstatic to see his old college buddy.

“That option seems appropriate, now that I think of it.” Cas breaks the silence, placing his empty glass into the sink. “Although, going home drunk doesn’t sound all too wise.”

“One beer won’t kill you, will it?” says Dean, shoving the pizza box into the trash before reaching over into the fridge and pulling out two cold bottles of beer, grateful for the liquid courage in his hands. It’s the good stuff too, none of that cheap bitter crap that Dean had grown up drinking.

Castiel takes the beer that Dean offers to him, popping the cap with a little nod.

“I suppose not.”

Standing across from Cas, Dean raises his eyebrows, holding up his beer before taking a swig. Castiel follows suit, tilting up his chin as he sculls his beer down in a manner of seconds, and Dean’s eyes can’t help but drift upwards, fixating on the bob of Castiel’s Adam's apple as he swallows, the slight sheen of sweat on his neck glistening under the kitchen lights.

Compared to how slowly he’d sipped on his water, Dean is surprised and somewhat impressed at Cas’ feat, whistling in awe.

“Damn, Cas. S’weird seeing you actually… enjoy your booze. I still remember how back in the day, you used to go off the rails after a few shots.” Dean chuckles, chugging down the remainder of his beer. “Good times, they were.”

Resting his hands on the ledge of the kitchen counter, Castiel raises his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly.

“To be honest with you, Dean, I don’t miss the nightclubs all that much,” Cas huffs in amusement, rolling his eyes. “I’ve lost count of the number of days I woke up with a raging hangover in a bed that wasn’t my own.”

They share a laugh at that.

“Touché, church kid!” says Dean, toying with the bottle-cap of his beer. “To this day, I still don’t know how you, Sam, and I even graduated after pulling all the dumb shit we did.”

“Ah. Perhaps we’re not meant to?” Castiel cocks his head to the side in his famous head-tilt Sam always used to mimic while telling Dean about his eccentric flatmate.

Thinking about it, Dean realizes just how accurate Sam’s imitation really was. Once Sam returns, _because he will_, Dean will have to pat him on the back for acing that one.

After what seems like an eternity of joking around about their college lives and reminiscing about Sam, Castiel straightens, pulling down the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Well, as much as I enjoy talking about the past with you, I should probably get going,” He sends Dean a lop-sided smile, brushing his hands on the front of his shirt as he exits the kitchen and into the west wing once again. “I’m saddened to hear about Sam’s disappearance, but it was great to see you, Dean. For everyone’s sake, I hope Sam comes back soon. You’ll let me know what happens?”

“Yeah. Me too, Cas, and ‘course I will.” Dean waves his hand, opening the front door for Cas. Taking his balled-up trench coat from its place in the crook of his arm and slipping it back on, Castiel bids Dean farewell, stepping outside into the early air of the night.

“I’ll see you around, Dean?” Castiel gives him a hopeful look and Dean nods. Seeing Cas again doesn’t sound all too bad of an idea, Dean thinks to himself. Castiel was a huge part of Sam’s life back in the day. The normality it promises, the comfort that comes with familiarity? Dean misses that more and more as the days drag on by.

“Yeah. I’ll uh, see ya around, Cas,” Dean says, giving a salute as Castiel waves goodbye. Dean bolts back into his house before he can do anything more embarrassing, leaning his weight against the door after he closes it. He shakes his head, groaning. “Sam is gonna be pissed at me for that, I know it.” Dean mutters under his breath.

Not wanting to watch TV anymore, Dean switches it off and trudges to his bedroom. Crawling into bed, Dean mulls over his time spent with Castiel, and how he’d just shown up at Dean’s doorstep like he was the love interest in some cheesy Hollywood romcom. Cas had even _looked_ like the love interest in a Hollywood rom-com, all dishevelled and pretty with his mop of dark curls falling over his forehead and that wrinkled tan trench coat draped over his broad shoulders like a stage curtain before the show begins.

How did Cas even know where Dean lived in the first place? Dean had forgotten to ask.

Considering the fact that Castiel had come to visit Sam in the first place and not Dean, he wonders if he’ll ever see Cas again after their little reunion. The guy has amnesia, he may not even remember what happened tonight the moment he wakes up tomorrow morning. For goodness sake, he literally hit his head hard enough to wake up in the middle of a park hours later and have no idea what happened to him! Perhaps, it’s better off he and Dean part ways here, anyway.

Sam is still out there, somewhere.

They can’t afford to get distracted now.

\---

“Afternoon, Dean!” A sweet, disembodied voice calls out, pulling his gaze to meet the eyes of his college friend and co-worker, Charlie Bradbury. She raises her eyebrows and grins in greeting as Dean shakes his head at her, all fond.

“Fancy seeing you here, pipsqueak.” Dean ruffles her fiery red hair, and she bats his hand away. “Who said you could just pop on over to my house unannounced, huh?”

Charlie places her hands on her hips, cocking her head to the side with a devious smirk.

“You did. The day you and Sam moved in three years ago, to be precise.” Charlie’s smile goes all smug at that, and Dean rolls his eyes, resuming his work setting out the chairs in his backyard.

It’s Dean’s turn to host the monthly get-together between him, Charlie and their combined friend group this evening, and despite there being a slight chill in the air, Dean still deems it safe enough to bring out his grill and cook up some glorious burgers for the incoming crowd.

“Remind me why I said such a thing?” says Dean, raising his eyebrows at Charlie.

“‘Cause you love me? Plus, I’m your greatest wing-woman, Dean! I’d like to think I’m pretty indisposable here.” says Charlie, helping him set out the last of the chairs.

“True,” Dean nods, shrugging. “I’ve gotten laid many an occasion thanks to your help.”

“Oh, likewise.” Charlie smirks, causing Dean to laugh. The statement is true, Dean and Charlie have assisted each other countless times in getting lucky after a fun night out at the bar. While he was still in college, it used to be the nightclubs, yet going into his mid-thirties, Dean’s found that scene far too loud and sweaty for his personal taste these days.

Maybe it’s a sign of getting old, God forbid?

Heating up the grill, Dean listens as Charlie rambles in the background about her newest fling, Gilda Morrison, whom Charlie had met during a LARPing session at the local park a few weeks ago. The Queen of Moondoor needs a worthy bride by her side, apparently. It’s not until he feels a hand slap his shoulder that Dean jolts to attention, and as expected, Charlie is standing beside him, arms crossed.

“Dean, did you hear _anything_ I just said?” She huffs, and Dean pouts.

“Hey, ‘course I did! Who do you peg me as?”

“Um, I wouldn’t? Obviously?”

“...Okay, you know what? Wait, forget that. I know you,” Dean exhales, placing his hands on his forehead. From his personal experience, one can never, ever, trust a flaming lesbian to not pull a gay joke when the golden opportunity hits, and Dean just waltzed into that trap like a moth to the flame. “Gilda, uh, sounds like a chick who’d have a real shot at handling your insanity, I think. She’s a nerd like you, gorgeous, a little frisky,” Charlie blushes beet-red at that, nodding in agreement. What can Dean say, it’s impossible not to notice your best friend playing tongue guitar with the new recruit when you happen to stride into their tent mid-makeout. “A lot frisky, hell yes. No kidding, what more could a woman of good taste like yourself want in her life, Red? Not to mention, you sound like Sammy did when he first met Jess. You know, all whipped like the cream. You gotta go for it.”

Dean can recognize the ‘heart-eyes voice’ from a mile away, thanks to Sam’s old tangents. That lovestruck tone woven within Charlie’s words is unmistakable. Charlie lets out a shy giggle, brushing her bangs from her eyes.

“Wow, okay,” She beams, fiddling with her nails. “So, Dean Winchester, my wingman, my brother from another mother, my favourite bi, the world is dying to know! Why are you sporting the famous ‘I’ve-just-had-mind-blowing sex’ face tonight? You’re all smiley and throwing compliments like no tomorrow! You’ve definitely gotten laid.”

Watching from the corner of his eye as his other guests arrive with plates of food in hand, Dean shrugs. If he’s not careful, everyone will be on his back about this. Although, in their defence, a two-month-long dry spell from Dean is rather uncharacteristic of him, even after what happened with Sam. Dean still enjoys sex, he hasn’t become anything along the lines of forever celibate. He’s just… not wanting to these days.

“Nah, haven’t had a roll in the hay since Sam left. Haven’t been feeling it, I guess?” Dean admits, voice tinged with hesitancy. Before anyone can read any further into it, Dean adds, “Shit, Charlie, who am I? A frickin’ monk?” It seems to do the trick, but Charlie smirks at him.

“Oh no! Are you telling me because you can’t get it up anymore, you’re committing yourself to the Lord’s work?” Charlie cackles, a mocking hand covering her mouth. “Should I be worried?”

To make matters worse, Charlie’s incredulous tone has attracted the attention of the others, in particular, wives Jody and Donna Mills, looming over them like a pair of snakes, ready to strike the moment Dean opens his big mouth. Dean grimaces, sucking in a deep breath. He’s tried to forget about last night’s unusual encounter, convincing himself that he’ll never see Cas again and that’s that.

It seems like Fate - if it does exist - has other plans for him.

“I don’t know, you tell me, Judas!” Dean sasses her, Charlie and a few of the others laughing at the ongoing tirade. “I’m not that old!”

“Huh. Brings a whole new meaning to rising again on the third day, doesn't it, Dean?” Jody prods him, a smug twinkle in her eye as Donna and Charlie stand on either side of her, cornering Dean behind the grill.

“Jody! Oh my god!” Donna gasps in realisation, and everyone bursts into shocked laughter. Benny, Kevin, and Jo observe from the side-lines, choking on their spiked punch. Everyone is here, apart from Jess, who's running late, and Dean doesn’t mind her missing out on the shit-on-the-dinner-host fest going on.

“Hey, so what’s this about Chief over there losing his touch with the ladies and gents?” Benny calls out, Dean flipping him off with a petulant scowl. Jody raises an eyebrow, placing a hand on her hip. “The wife’s a doctor, I’m sure Andrea could help!”

“For the last time, I know you all mean well, but just because I’m not doing the rounds like I used to does not goddamn mean that I can’t get it up, fucking hell! That’s not the issue!” Dean silences them all, cringing at the intimate topic. “I just don’t want to right now, that’s all.”

“Sorry, Dean.” The group apologizes in unison, which shouldn’t be as unsettling as it is. They resume chatting with each other for a prolonged moment, and Dean can refocus on the grill before him. Jody, however, doesn’t look ready to give up on her investigation quite yet.

“Well, if that’s not the case, who’s the lucky duck you’re mooning over? Trust me, I’m a mom. I can tell.” she asks Dean, raising her eyebrows. Donna says nothing, but gestures for Dean to start talking before her wife gets impatient.

“What? I’m not ‘mooning’ over anyone. I did nothing, or no-one last night, I swear to God!” Dean looks pointedly at Jody, who meets his gaze with one of dangerous curiosity. “Sure, an old friend of Sam’s came over for an impromptu visit, yeah, but he–uh, that wasn’t a sexual thing whatsoever, alright?”

It’s in that moment that Dean realizes that he’s dug his own grave.

“Well, well! It’s about time! No need to worry everyone, our Dean’s gone on a fella!” Jody announces and the group hollers in victory. Forget being lowered into his own grave, Dean was just slam-dunked six feet under.

“After all of this teasing crap, I’m in my right mind not to make you guys any of my goddamn burgers, you know that?” says Dean, flipping the burger patties he’d since placed on the hot grill. Riot, Sam’s old dog, is a welcomed relief from Dean’s embarrassment, nuzzling himself between Dean’s legs as Jess finally appears with a pie in her arms. Jo bounds over, gripping her in a bear hug and whispering into her ear. Dean doesn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know that it’s about him. By the particular way Jess looks over at Dean and waddles over to hug him tight, it’s confirmed she’s heard the gossip.

“Okay, so maybe it’s the pregnancy brain making me all sappy, I get that, but Dean, your brother told me how hard you’ve had it from your dad for being different and how strong you are too, and I’m just… oh, God. I’m just so happy you feel ready to openly put yourself out there.” She smiles with pride, and Dean is thrown off by how genuine Jess sounds. He stands there, downright stunned, enveloped in her embrace. “Sam would be so proud of you, you know.”

The crutch here is that Dean _knows_ Sam would’ve said these things if he were present.

For one, after Dean had just graduated high-school and fled the coop at the bidding of their traditionalist father in his drunken uproar about Dean being bisexual, Sam had left the family home to move in with Dean, not wanting to live alone with their asshole of a single dad. Throughout the following years of Dean struggling to come to terms with himself and his identity, even during their college years, Sam was that one constant in Dean’s life, a brother in every sense of the word. Once Sam vanished, Dean realised the huge extent of how much he depended on him. Why did he have to go?

Pleasant chatter rattles amongst the group as they serve themselves dinner, seeming to have forgotten about teasing Dean on his apparent crush on another man. Jess updates everyone on her pregnancy, being six months in and feeling excited about her baby’s approaching arrival. Charlie sits beside her, Riot taking a cue from Charlie and resting his head on Jess’ lap. Working away at her burger, Dean hears Charlie bouncing potential baby names off Jess.

Over near the punch bowl, Benny and Jo are discussing what they’ve told Dean is ‘police stuff’. Prompting a roll of his eyes at them and a not-so-subtle tip to try talking about anything other than ‘police stuff’, Dean ushers them away from the table with a laugh. Having grabbed their glasses of punch, the two have since wandered over to Charlie and Jess. The four of them are now immersed deep in conversation, most likely about his future niece or nephew, and Dean nods in approval.

For dessert, Kevin serves up a killer lemon meringue pie that Donna quickly calls dibs on, while Dean lays his claim to Jess’ homemade apple pie. Jody, as Donna’s perpetually exhausted detective wife, downs a mug of coffee, electing to spoon-feed Donna bits of her pie instead.

“Oh god, would you get a room, you two?” Dean teases, making fake choking noises. The older couple laughs at him, continuing to feed each other shards of dessert with no shame whatsoever. Jody has the gall to start making aeroplane noises as she places the spoon in Donna’s mouth, all while maintaining eye contact with Dean, and he soon surrenders, scuttering off.

“Alright, alright, I get it! You two win this time.” He grins, hands raised in defeat. Grabbing another piece of warm apple pie, Dean feels a buzzing in his pocket, putting down his plate on the nearby table and pulling out his cellphone.

_Someone’s calling him, but who could it be?_

Dean prays it isn’t Mr. Adler asking Dean to come into work tomorrow, or he will throw a punch. Vague annoyance morphs into shell-shocking paranoia in a manner of seconds, reading the name of the contact number calling him. His stomach drops.

It’s… Sam.

Sam is calling Dean, right now, at this second.

Dean staggers off to a quieter area of his backyard to answer the call, not knowing what to expect. The line picks up, and he catches a familiar voice.

“Bobby?”

It’s not Sam talking, but their surrogate father, Bobby Singer. He must’ve found Sam, or Sam must’ve found Bobby or something along those lines. Bobby never calls unless there’s a real need for him to. _What if that means..._

This can’t be good. Why is Bobby calling from Sam’s mobile? Why does he sound like that? Bobby’s voice doesn’t crack, Bobby’s tone never wobbles. Except for when Karen...

_‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’_

Dean seethes, coursing a hand through his hair. Pacing in a circuit around one of Sam’s potted shrubs, he gulps, unable to stand in one spot for too long. His head drowns in a flash flood of thoughts, wave after wave of dark assumptions, worries, fears. Chewing on his bottom lip, the world smudges like wet paint, a stinging sight, fluid, nebulous.

_‘Please don’t say what I think you’re gonna say. Please don’t fucking say what I think you’re gonna fucking say.’_

“Dean, it’s about Sam. You need to come up to my place. Now, if you can.” says Bobby in his run-of-the-mill straight-forward tone. The hint of urgency in his voice, however, is what has Dean sprinting for his car, ready to commit to the five-hour drive up to Bobby’s scrap-yard in Sioux Falls the moment Dean’s foot touches the pedal. He said the one thing Dean was hoping, fucking praying for Bobby not to say because, in that tone, it can only mean one thing.

“Dean?” Benny sounds out, and Dean spares a glance at the concerned man, struck dumb. Caught like a deer in the headlights, Dean stands there frozen in the worried scrutiny of his closest friends, flinching at the slightest sound. The glaring sun is too bright for his liking.

_“Dean, hon?”_

_“Dean, what’s going on?”_

_“You okay, Dean?”_

_“What happened?”_

Before anyone can approach, before any of them dare to pin him down, to stop him from leaving, Dean is sprinting for the garage, having not said a single word. As anticipated, Jo races after Dean, followed by Benny, Charlie, and Jody, and not far behind them are Kevin, Jess, and Donna. Dean can feel their eyes boring a hole into his back, hear their panicked words. They’re going to have too many questions, he knows he’ll regret his actions, but this? This is about Sam.

As long as he is alive, safe - and not dead, Dean doesn’t care about what happens back here at all. The party can go on as planned, Dean trusts his friends not to meddle with anything in his house, Sam’s empty bedroom in particular. They may eat most of his food, sure, but that’s the least of Dean’s concerns as of now. All Dean’s mind can focus on is Sam - his missing brother, his friend.

“Got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” says Dean, catching his breath, and Bobby wishes him a safe journey, cutting the line.

“Dean! Slow down!” Jody calls out, voice laced with worry. She’s running, helpless to prevent Dean from leaping into his car and slamming the door shut, locking it behind him. “What’s going on? This isn’t you, Dean!”

“Please tell us, Dean! You’re making us worried sick over here!” Jess appears beside Jody and Donna, arms outstretched. “God, please,_ please _tell me you’re not doing anything stupid!”

He hesitates, thrown off by Jess’ distress, and Charlie presses up against the car door, her features pulled into a puzzled frown. Dean stops himself from rolling up the window, revelling in the deep purr of the car engine running, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

“Dean, what’s gotten into you? Why are you doing this?” She questions him, eyebrows furrowed. Gesturing to the road behind him, Dean shrugs, telling her he’s off to visit Bobby.

“It’s… It’s to do with Sam, Charlie. I have to go.” He whispers in Charlie’s ear, unable to look anyone in the eye. “Please. Don’t let me not go.”

“But, that’s five whole hours away, Dean! What are we supposed to do while you’re gone?” Kevin interjects, sounding confused, a little hurt, even.

“Can’t we go with you? If this is about Sam, you’ll need our support.” says Jo, edging closer.

“No, I’m alright. Make yourselves at home, so long as you stay out of Sammy’s room.” says Dean, backing out of the driveway as his friends stand by on the sidewalk. Charlie nods, stepping away from the car, blinking back tears.

“...Okay. We trust you, Dean. Be… be safe.” She gives him a quick nod and a tense smile.

“Thanks. I’ll make it up to you guys, I swear. Hold the fort for me!”

“Godspeed, Dean!” Benny raises his hand and he and the others fall into sync, waving Dean goodbye. They fade into the distance, Dean waving back at them until they’re out of eyesight.


	2. painted revelations

_“Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is.” - Kurt Vonnegut_

\---

Knocking on Bobby’s front door, Dean paces back and forth, chewing on his lip. The impromptu journey to Sioux Falls had been nothing memorable, Dean wanting to get there as fast as possible without delay. 

He’d watched sunset number fifty on the drive up, once again noting this one didn’t have that_ Sam_ feel, either. Dean’s found himself near the verge of giddiness as the prospect of finally reuniting with Sam feels more and more… realistic.

As if on cue, Bobby answers the door, and all of Dean’s excitement welled up in his heart dissipates along with the onset of Bobby’s troubled frown. 

This is not the kind of welcome Dean had been hoping for.

“Hey, Bobby. Where’s Sam?” asks Dean, stepping aside as Bobby shuts the door behind him. There’s a long huff in response, and Dean’s jaw clenches in anxiety. “Sam?” Dean shouts, breaking into a jog. He can feel Bobby on his heels, yet the older man says nothing. “Sam?” Dean continues, peering into the kitchen, the hallway, the scrapyard. “Sam!” 

“Sam’s dead, boy.” 

Dean freezes in his spot, unable to breathe. 

Bobby quietens, focusing elsewhere. “Found what’s left of his corpse by accident while on a hunt with Rufus no more than an hour ago. He’s been gone for a while too, by the looks of it. Body’s all rotten and stinking.”

“–What?” Dean shakes his head, gripping onto his forearms. “No. No, that’s not true, dammit!”

The unassuming word becomes a mantra in Dean’s mind and mouth, coiling itself around his blurring vision and amplifying the pounding pulse of his deepening sorrow. Shoulders sagging, Bobby sighs deeply, gesturing for Dean to follow him into the living room.[[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)]

The rancid stench of rotting flesh assaults Dean’s nostrils with a vengeance, covering his nose in an effort to prevent himself from losing his last meal as Bobby leads him over to an occupied table in the middle of the room. Dean jerks back at the sight, stumbling into the hallway again, his stinging eyes peeling wide. 

Sam is dead.

_Sam is dead._

_ **Sam is dead.** _

“I can’t go in there, Bobby.” Dean shakes his head, struggling to keep it together. His knees wobble beneath him, his hands won’t stop shaking. The air in here is thick, too thick. “I can’t.”

“Oh, Dean,” Bobby places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, his face etched with gentle sympathy. “I know this is hard for you, for both of us, but–”

“–No, Bobby! You don’t get it! I can’t. I–can’t!” Dean barks, flinching at how his voice cracks. Going into that room, seeing what’s under that sheet - Dean can’t find the gall within himself to even step into the doorway once more, to look at that chilling view. 

Bobby didn’t call Dean up to bring Sam home, he called Dean up to see his brother’s corpse. 

It’s a reality check. 

If Dean goes in there, if he sees what’s left of Sam, he’ll have to hang up his hopes of a happy ending for good. He’ll have no choice but to admit that he is the lone king of a fool’s paradise, of a stupid dream. Dean doesn’t want to. His veins throb with nervous adrenaline, limbs itching to run for the hills, to run as far away from here as he can and never set foot in that room again. 

Bobby’s hand hasn’t left Dean’s shoulder for this entire time, and Dean senses what Bobby is doing the moment he dares to take a step forward. Dean wrings his hands, following Bobby.

“One step at a time, alright? One step at a time.”

They approach the table, and Dean baulks, gritting his teeth in discomfort. Pausing, Bobby turns to look at Dean, a silent question, and Dean exhales, waving him off. He can’t back out now.

“You sure, Dean?” Bobby looks at him, moving aside. “You can leave if you want to, son.” 

Leaving sounds all too appealing, and Dean doesn’t miss the hesitance in his own step.

“No, I might as well see him now. While I… while I have the guts.” Pulling away the white sheet enough to reveal Sam’s face, Dean gasps. What he sees is not the Sam that Dean wanted to bring home. Never in his life.

True to Bobby’s words, Sam is gone, the waxen skin on his body caked with dried blood and dirt. Greasy hair sticks out of his scalp in matted clumps, doing little to conceal the chilling sight of Sam’s lifeless eyes staring into the sky, glazed over in eternal sleep.

Blinking back any signs of tears, Dean laces his fingers around the Samulet, the necklace that Sam had given him for Christmas one year when they were kids, and grips onto it for dear life. A choking sound rises up like bile in Dean’s throat, and he clamps his mouth shut.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” says Bobby, shuffling his feet. “For putting this on you.” Shrugging him away, Dean digs his hands in his pockets, refusing to look at Sam.

It’s hard to process the reality here, dancing between the lines between denial and truth.

What is Dean supposed to do or say when he returns home to Lebanon and everyone learns that Sam had committed suicide like they all had been led to believe?

How is Jess going to react, hearing that the love of her life and the father of her unborn child is gone for real? It will break her just as much, if not more, than it has Dean, he knows it. He hopes he’s not the one who’ll have to tell her.

“Are you staying, son? Or would you rather go home? You know. To process things.” asks Bobby, as Dean runs his hands through his hair, rushing for the front door. He can’t take it any longer.

“I’ve alerted the authorities on Sam’s whereabouts and all that, so you don’t have to worry, I gotcha. His funeral is on Friday if you were wondering. St. Matthews church. 10 in the morning, you hear?” Bobby seems to get this, patting Dean on the shoulder as they exit the house and walk out to the Impala. “You be safe, Dean. I’ll call you if I need anything else from ya.”

“Got it. Uh, thanks for everything, Bobby.” Dean nods in humble gratitude, relieved that he doesn’t have to stress over Sam’s funeral amongst other things. “Sorry, I can’t stay. I… it’s just hard to, you know. Stuff.”

Bobby shrugs it off, as per usual, yet Dean can see the glint of pain shining in his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, son. I’m not mad at you.”

If only Dean could switch places with Sam. 

\---

If it weren’t for the fact he’d lived with a younger brother for the majority of his life and thus had gained an overdeveloped sense of direction, Dean may have found himself at the end of the iron fire poker Charlie is wielding rather than swerved out of its reach.

“...Dean? Oh, thank fuck, it’s you!” Charlie drops the poker, yanking Dean into a hug. She pats his shoulders before cupping his cheeks. “Everything… okay? You know, with… uh, you know. With… uh. Your trip? Not… too… difficu–?” 

“–Sam’s dead, Charlie. You can say it.” Dean interrupts, huffing. The last thing he wants is for anyone to feel sorry for him like he’s some fragile little kid. What’s happened has happened. There’s nothing Dean can do to change that, to bring Sam back from the dead. Doesn’t mean that Dean doesn’t wish Sam were here regardless, but he will not tolerate this babying bullshit.

“Hey. I know you mean well, but God, please don’t start with the _‘I’m so sorry’_ crap, alright? I have enough on my plate as is. I just came from Jess’ apartment. She’s still not coping with the news very well, ” says Dean, jaw clenched, slumping onto his couch in exhaustion.

His limbs dangle off the couch, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The ceiling spins above his head, swaying back and forth with his woozy eyes. Tears prickle his vision and he blinks, silently reciting numbers in his head to combat the building urge to break down and cry. 

_One… two, three… four, five, six... seven. _

_Seven... six, five… four, three, two… one._

_One, two, three... four, five… six, seven. _

_Seven, six, five, four… three, two, one... _

With the funeral in just three days, Dean’s been stressed out of his mind about it all week, even if Bobby is the main showrunner. People have been in and out of his house day after day, asking him questions and prodding about Sam, about his life, offering casseroles and condolences, and Dean can’t take it anymore. Before he can nod off on the sofa, Dean sits up, squinting at Charlie.

“Before I forget, uh, what the hell might you be doing with that poker, Red?” She steps backwards with a curt shrug, slinging the bar of iron across her shoulders.

“Just a precaution!” she replies, dropping a folded piece of paper on Dean’s lap. “Uh, you know, house-sitting things.”

“What’s this?” Dean mutters, unfolding the note. Written in an eerily-familiar elegant scrawl, is a phone number and a word beside it. “Who the fuck writes in cursive in the 21st century?” Peering closer, Dean sees it says, _‘Cas.’_ and he swallows. “Huh. Sam’s old college buddy, apparently. Cas, the big nerd.”

After the shitshow that has been this week, Dean admits he’s placed meeting up with Castiel on the back burner to make room for dealing with Sam’s confirmed death, frustration over the fact that the murderer is still out there, and last-minute funeral plans, and –

Fuck. Dean forgot to tell Cas about Sam like he’d promised he would. 

Now that he has Cas’ phone number, he should probably pass on the news. Dean can just _feel_ Sam’s unimpressed glare staring into his soul. Perhaps, Cas has gotten the word through someone else? There’s a niggling feeling in Dean’s mind that Castiel is still in the dark about the whole situation, though. 

“So, who’s Cas? A man of interest?” asks Charlie, raising an eyebrow. Clearing his throat, Dean shrugs, slinging his arm across the back of the sofa. “Oh! _The _man of interest!” 

“Not in the way you’re thinking.” says Dean.

Ever since he’d left Bobby’s house days earlier, Dean couldn’t shake the intruding question of whether Castiel is as innocent as he’s portraying himself to be. The fondness, the elation of seeing an old friend from his college days clouding Dean’s judgement upon his reunion with Castiel has settled. All week, in fact, Dean’s been considering the coincidences and suspicious alibis of the man.

_‘Didn’t Cas say he’d seen Sam on Christmas Eve?’_

Sam had been up in Sioux Falls with Jess, staying at the Singers’ house, so Cas must’ve been in the vicinity too. Right place, right time. It sits in Dean’s gut with an unsettling ache.

An intrusive thought sets off every alarm bell in Dean’s frazzled headspace.

_‘What if Cas is the murderer?’_

It would make sense if one were to think about it. He’s known Sam for several years, and had the time to develop those... urges against him. No one would suspect it to be Cas either, considering the golden reputation he carries. 

However, what has Dean curious is Cas’ motive. What had Sam done to put himself on Castiel’s bad side? Nothing, from what Dean’s seen. Was Cas jealous of how successful Sam was? Of his reputation?

None of it feels quite right, but it’s all Dean has come up within the span of a few days. It’s not like Dean _wants_ to be right about this. He just can’t think of anyone else who fits the bill as well as Cas seems to.

With that, the room goes dark. 

Dean falls under the spell of fatigue.

\---

Dean wakes up hearing the faint melody of laughter spill from the direction of the kitchen. These last few nights have been awful, sleep escaping him in favour of his nerves. Rubbing the kinks out of his sore neck, he rolls his eyes, meandering over towards the west wing. 

Charlie must’ve stayed the night.

Not that Dean minds, of course, they’ve been joined at the hip since college, like Sam and Cas were. Not only that, but he had gotten back home much later than usual last night, and left Charlie on house-sitting duty for a few hours longer than he’d asked of her. The least he could do is let her stay over in return. If he finds the energy, he’ll make her breakfast.

Trudging into the kitchen, Dean spots Charlie, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, peering at yet another piece of paper with a devious smirk etched into her lips.

“Oh, you’re up super early! Didn’t realise you’d hit the bars last night.” Charlie’s grin is wobbly, words feigning amusement but her tone laced with the hidden beginnings of concern. Letting his eyes adjust to the morning light, Dean shakes his head, releasing a sleepy ‘humph’. By the way Charlie’s mouth folds into an inquisitive frown, Dean anticipates bad news.

“What? I didn’t.”

“Who… who wrote this, then?” She strokes her chin, bringing the note closer to her eyes.

“What does it say?” asks Dean, growing more curious by the second.

“Take a look for yourself.” says Charlie, holding out the note for him.

_‘Castiel knows.’_ The hand-written note reads, scrawled on the back of an old receipt. In two little words, Dean’s itching suspicions about Castiel have been confirmed. Dean hates it. 

It can’t really be Cas? Could it? 

“Castiel knows? What do they mean by that? Why does that matter to me, unless…” Dean leans against the counter, body tense with shock. “...You’re fucking joking.”

“Dean?” Charlie whispers, moving to stand beside him.

_Castiel knows._

Castiel fucking Novak knows more about Sam’s murder than he’s letting on. It has to mean that. What else could it mean? There’s nothing else that Castiel would know about that would matter to Dean as much as what happened to Sam.

“He was lying to me,” Dean mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The son of a bitch was lying to my face this whole damn time!”

Pulling out his phone, he dials Cas’ number, disregarding the early hour, and prepares to question Cas to an inch of his life. Meanwhile, Charlie reaches into the cupboard and makes herself a cup of coffee.

_“You have reached the voicemail of–”_

“–Dammit!” Dean curses, calling Castiel four more times before giving up. “Why doesn’t the bastard answer his own goddamn phone?”

“Maybe because it’s eight ‘o clock in the morning?” says Charlie, sipping on her coffee. “Seriously. You’ve been acting strange all week, Dean. What’s got your panties in a twist?” 

Dean rolls his eyes with a pregnant sigh, pressing his lips together.

“Because Cas was one of the last people to see Sam alive, Charlie! And he wasn’t mentioned in the initial investigation once! He could be the murde–” 

The knock on the front door startles both Dean and Charlie, and Dean places his hand on his heart, taking the time to recompose himself before going to answer his guest. Maybe it’s Cas, repeating what he’d done on that memorable night last week and visiting Dean out of the blue. Dean’s betting on it, storming up to the entrance of his house with a displeased scowl.

“Cas, you–” Dean cuts himself off the moment he’s face to face with the pizza delivery man. “–Oh.” 

This is awkward. His suspicions were wrong. 

Is Cas even in town? If he is the murderer, he wouldn’t be. Besides, why _would_ Castiel come to see Dean, the older brother of the victim? He’s certainly not answering any of his phone calls.

_‘Who the hell orders pizza at eight ‘o clock in the morning?’_

“You’re here! Thank God, I’m starving!” Charlie bounds up to them without batting an eyelash, and pays the guy, grabbing the hot pizzas from his hands. 

“–Uh… sorry about that.” Dean mutters, closing the door behind him. 

“What the fuck, Charlie?” Dean stifles a laugh, staring at the back of her head as she saunters down the hallway with the two boxes of pizza she’s ordered.

“What? Don’t frown at me! I got you one too, you old grump.” Charlie defends, taking one box and sliding the other one across the kitchen counter in front of Dean. This should be a hearty start to the day, even if Sam would be unimpressed with him.

“You’re forgiven… unless it’s Hawaiian. Then you’re not forgiven.” 

Letting out an amused huff, Charlie face-palms, picking at a slice of her own pizza. When the door knocks for the second time in the span of an hour, Dean groans. Who could it be this time? Cas?

“God. There are two things I know for certain,” He gripes, stalking down the hall. “One, I’m getting a goddamn doorbell. Two, never trust guys who look like glorified tax accountants. Chances are they murdered your brother.”

“Oh, jeez. Thanks for the life lesson.” Charlie deadpans, and Dean bites his lip as to not ruin his serious, CSI-esque moment. Speak of the devil, and Castiel stands on Dean’s doorstep, fiddling with his blue silk tie. 

“Cas?” 

So Cas _didn’t_ hightail it out of Lebanon once he got word Sam’s body has been found? Huh. Dean’s thrown off by that, already a little less sure of his accusations. “Anyone tell you how it’s common courtesy to answer your goddamn phone when someone calls you?” Castiel tilts his head to the side, glancing sideways.

“Not when you immediately hang up on me as soon as I answer said calls, Dean.” Mouth falling open, Dean raises his eyebrows, pulling his arms tighter across his chest.

_‘What do you mean you answered those calls? You didn’t!’_

“It’s not cool to lie, Cas.”

“I hate to be ‘that guy’, but you personally can’t say much about that, Dean.”

The words hit Dean with underlying emotion, and he pauses. Dean swears there’s something deeper hidden within that brash statement, choosing not to ponder on what exactly Cas may have been alluding to. Not now, at least.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean brushes it off as they settle themselves in the living-room, a wordless Charlie seated beside Dean sat across from Castiel. 

“You have some major explaining to do, Cas! Sam was murdered, and all the clues are pointing at you being the one who did it. I wanna know why.” She blurts out, palms slamming against the surface of the coffee table, and Dean winces at her brashness. He wonders if Cas even knows Sam has been found dead. Dean hadn’t told Cas about Sam in the end, just to make sure Castiel wouldn’t skip town and evade the authorities.

The reaction Dean gets isn’t one of grand proportions. Castiel’s sharp features furrow into a deep frown, his hands clasped in front of him. Looking at his confused, yet hurt expression, Dean almost second-guesses himself. 

“...What? Sam is... dead? Charlie, Dean, when? Where? How? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

_‘Fuck, you’re supposed to be accusing him, not have your heart ripped out like that! Jesus Christ.’_

Sitting stiffly beside Dean, Charlie purses her lips, focusing on the coffee table. The cold room overflows with the weight of nervous tension, clouding Dean’s thoughts.

“Are you... accusing me of killing your brother?” Castiel stares, Dean shifting his jaw. At first, he was sure, but now there’s that niggling guilt eating away at his gut.

_‘What if Cas really does have amnesia, and I’m just jumping to conclusions?’_

“Well, you don’t leave me much choice here, Cas. It’s… it’s not like I want to.” Shifting in his seat, Castiel gives him a curt nod.

“I see.”

_‘No, you don’t see.’_

“They... told us you know something we don’t.” Charlie speaks up, her tone hushed.

“Who is ‘they’?” Castiel turns his probing gaze towards her, and Dean chews on his lip, “The police?” 

Charlie’s talking about the mysterious note they’d found this morning. If Cas isn’t the murderer, and it’s seeming like that’s the case, Dean may have an even bigger issue on his hands here. With the stranger who’d written said note having easy access into his home, they could’ve slit his throat in his sleep and he never would’ve known. For fuck’s sake, this house itself was the site of a previous murder! What’s worse is that they still _could_, if Dean doesn’t get on top of things before it’s too late.

“Not the police, no,” Charlie quietens, passing the note over to Cas, who skims over it, his eyebrows knit in bewilderment. “We… don’t know who.”

“If that’s the case, shouldn’t you be concerned about how someone you don’t know has broken into your house without either of you noticing?” says Castiel, lacing his fingers together. “Then again, this is about Sam,” Dean shuffles in his seat. “–but how do they know my name? What did I do? What do I ‘know’? I don’t! My memory is pathetic!” Castiel defends, looking baffled.

“What if you killed Sam, but you can’t remember?”

The room goes silent.

No-one dares to move.

The question has Castiel struck dumb, his hands splayed across his forehead, stormy blue eyes wide and unblinking. Charlie’s foot taps, the repetitive sound muffled against the padded carpet.

“I… I can only pray I never did such a thing.” Cas breaks the silence, his voice warbling. That in itself is enough to change Dean’s mind about everything. The tone, his shaking hands, the way Cas’ eyes are glued to the floor. He is sorry for something he doesn’t know if he’s done or not - come on. “The very last thing I can recall before my accident is… Sam and I… talking... about our childhoods… in your old family home, Dean. The rest of my memories after that… are all blank.”

In the spare moments after Cas leaves the house, and Charlie is walking out the door for the night, Dean finds himself repeating those solemn words in his mind, not knowing what to do or who to accuse. 

He’s hit a dead-end and he hates it.

——

Sleep is a visitor best left unnoticed, it seems. 

Dragging himself down the hall and into the west wing, Dean shivers at the onset of the cold, hands coming to wrap around his shoulders. Pressed into the kitchen bench as another note, and Dean peers at it, baffled.

_‘Why is the murderer leaving notes on my kitchen bench if they could just off me now?’_

Reading the scribbled words, Dean stiffens.

_‘He is one of us.’_ it says.

Ominous.

Pulling out his phone, Dean dials Charlie’s number, knowing she’ll want to hear about this. By the time Dean has made his coffee and is more or less fully alert, Charlie’s at his front door, still dressed in her Star Trek pyjamas and bubblegum pink slippers.

“What is it?” She whispers, Dean letting her inside.

“Not gonna lie, this is kinda freaking me out here,” Dean replies, attempting to rub some warmth back into his hands. “I mean, _‘he is one of us’_. Who are they talking about? Me? Cas? Some other guy who’s about to wring my neck?”

“No,” Charlie warbles, her posture stiffening. “It… it can’t be.”

“What can’t be?” asks Dean, turning to look at where Charlie is staring. He sees nothing but a blank white wall. Frowning in confusion, he glances at Charlie, whose eyes are wide and unblinking.

“Yeah, it’s uh, it’s a nicely painted wall. Cool.” Charlie squints at him, gesturing at the empty wall.

“Dean, this isn’t funny,” Charlie grows serious. “Can you not see her?” Despite perusing the space where Charlie is pointing at, Dean sees nothing. 

No woman. No one. Nothing.

Lower lip trembling, Charlie stumbles backwards. “...Anna?” She chokes out, lips parted. “Hi.”

_Anna? _

_As in, Anna Milton?_

Eight years ago, before she was murdered here, Anna and Charlie were a thing, having met while Charlie was studying abroad in Europe, and they’d moved back to Lebanon together. After Anna’s tragic death, a mere few days before Dean got to meet her in person, Charlie had never been quite the same.

“Wait, Charlie–what? Are you kidding me right now?” Dean says in disbelief, trying to figure out if this is some sort of dumb practical joke or if Charlie is actually seeing a spirit, which in that case, can’t be good news.

Ever since she’s caught hold of ‘Anna’, Charlie hasn’t moved a single muscle. Is she kidding about the eavesdropping phantom standing on the edge of the… 

The west wing. Of all places.

_‘Son of a bitch.’_

Charlie seeing her ghostly ex-lover standing at the entrance of the one place Sam had always joked about being haunted somehow gives the saying a darker kind of irony. According to a shaken Charlie, Sam wasn’t exactly joking.

The room temperature drops several degrees, icicles forming on the windows. Not knowing what to do or how to react to the peculiar situation, Dean, in an instinctive impulse, grabs onto Charlie’s shoulders and pulls her close, observing with worried eyes as she stumbles backwards, her breathing erratic.

“You’re not real! You’re not real!” She wails, bolting out of the room like a woman on the run. Dean doesn’t even have the chance to say anything before Charlie yanks him into one of the spare rooms, leaving the halls quiet and cold once again.

“Charlie?” Dean whispers, feeling sorry for her. “You okay?”

“I know who’s writing those notes.” She bites her cheek, pacing around the empty room. Dean follows closely behind her as Charlie bolts for the front door, not looking back. Retreating into her house, which happens to be across the road from Dean’s, Charlie settles somewhat, wrapping her arms around Dean in a tearful hug.

“It’s okay. I gotcha,” He soothes, pecking her forehead. “You were telling me something?” 

“Anna wrote those notes, Dean. Anna Milton.” Charlie warbles, head tucked under Dean’s chin. He doesn’t return to his cottage that night, sleeping over at Charlie’s, yet, laying in bed, gazing at the stars on the ceiling, one thought refuses to escape his mind.

Charlie.

She’s convinced she’s met a ghost.

\---

Ever since he laid eyes on Sam’s corpse, Dean has seen no point in keeping up with the sunsets. Sammy is gone, for good. There’s no point in pretending he isn’t dead anymore.

Throughout the day, Dean and Charlie have been putting their heads together to see if Charlie’s ghost claims are accurate. Countless articles about ghosts and their surrounding lore litter his Internet history, and together with Charlie’s brainpower, they’ve come up with a stupid, yet promising course of action.

Today they’re going to summon Anna.

Or her spirit, that is.

Pulling into his driveway, Dean shuffles in his seat, sliding his hands together. This could be a disaster, or it could not be. If nothing shows up, well, at least they gave it a shot.

In truth, Sam was always the more superstitious one out of him and Dean. When they bought the house nearly a decade ago, the suspected hauntings were a moot point for Sam, and Dean had been the one to push ahead and say that ghosts don’t exist, and thus there was nothing to worry about.

It’s not like he is entirely sure about the existence of ghosts today, but what other choice does Dean have? Based on Charlie’s claims, he’s been receiving anonymous messages from the ghost of whom just happens to be the long-lost love of one of his closest, most trusted friends. 

His house is also the site of a murder case, the west wing is freezing cold regardless of the weather, and people, including Sam, have told him how they feel a ‘presence’ within those walls. All signs of a haunting, according to their research. Besides, Charlie wouldn’t lie to him about something like this. Judging from her attitude towards him, she’s 100% serious.

“Time to summon a ghost.” Dean mutters, grabbing the shopping bag full of supplies and heading inside. Charlie, who lives across the road, crosses over to meet him on the front porch.

“Ready to do this?” She meets his gaze, and Dean nods, unlocking the front door.

“As I’ll ever be.” 

According to the countless articles they’d read on summoning spirits, one thing they all had in common was that to successfully beckon a ghost, you have to say their living name while holding a particular object. What is debated is whether said object is something that meant a great deal of importance to this person while they were alive, or something they were attached to in death, which could range from anything to the murder weapon, to the socks they were wearing when they died. 

Maybe it’s both?

Neither Dean or Charlie is sure.

With a deep breath, Charlie takes a familiar-looking ring out of her pocket and says Anna’s name in a slow, careful tone. Dean’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved that nothing happens. Yet, Charlie doesn’t falter, placing down her backpack and pulling out an old shirt from it, wrapping the garment around her hands.

“Anna Grace Milton.” 

The room freezes over, something Dean has gotten used to over the last eight years since he’s lived here. However, the awed expression on Charlie’s face says the summoning worked. He can’t see anything, but Charlie must do.

Anna is here.

“I hope you don’t mind the fact that I am currently shitting my pants.” Dean shudders, glancing around and seeing no-one other than an adoring Charlie. 

“It worked, Dean!” Charlie exclaims, somewhat occupied with Anna. “I read earlier that you can only see a ghost if you knew them when they were alive. You never got to meet Anna, so you can’t see her, but she’s here, beside me!”

“And?”

“She just confirmed she’s the one whose been writing the notes for us.”

_‘Oh, thank God.’_

Dean can take worrying about his imminent murder off the long list of reasons for him to be stressed. There’s still Sam’s funeral tomorrow, yet they will cross that bridge when they get to it. 

Charlie and an invisible Anna make their way out into the back garden, talking. From an outsider’s perspective, she may as well be having a conversation with herself.

Ghosts are real. 

Dean doesn’t know whether to be concerned or relieved about that discovery.

In Anna’s silent company, Charlie’s tickled pink. Compared to how quiet and distraught she’d been last night, Charlie’s classic self, her lively, energetic self, has emerged from the shadows, just like that. At the arrival of a phantom. 

A twinge of jealousy swells in Dean’s chest, stirring in contemplation. Why can’t he do the same with Sam? Anna’s awake, she can hear Charlie, talk to her, hug her back. Charlie can say her final goodbyes and not have to spend the rest of her life wishing she’d given Anna a better send-off. She has that chance now, and Dean wants it for himself. 

He never got to wish Sam a fucking ‘Merry Christmas’ last year, or got to give him his Christmas gifts. Dean wasn’t even in Sioux Falls when Sam died there! No, Dean had been stuck in Lebanon, working on some godforsaken blueprints. 

Unlike Charlie, who can now, Dean doesn’t get the chance to say all of the things he wishes he could say to Sam. All of the secrets, the apologies, the sheer gratitude Dean has for his brother. Dean can’t find peace in this, he’s been trying to ever since Sam was just missing and not yet confirmed dead. How hard is it for Dean to admit that he needs Sam back? 

Why can’t he summon Sam like Charlie summoned Anna? Why shouldn’t he? Dean now knows how to. He and Sam could find some well-deserved closure for once in their goddamn lives.

_‘What if it doesn’t work?’_

Maybe it’s a hit-or-miss kind of deal. Maybe the person has to be dead for a few years first. Should Dean even bother to try? What if he’s not meant to see Sam again, and just has to accept the loss like every single other human being on the expanse of this fucking planet?

“Fuck it,” He mutters, shoving aside his doubts in favour of his spiritual impulse. “I’m summoning him. Charlie or no Charlie.”

Without blinking an eye, Dean grabs onto the Samulet and whispers Sam’s full name like a prayer. There’s nothing. Nothing, no one appears. Dean deflates.

_‘What were you expecting, dumbass?’_

It stings to peer out the living room windows and see Charlie laughing away, happy as ever. Rolling his shoulders, Dean snaps his eyes shut, repeating Sam’s name.

_‘Come on, come on, come on!’_

“...What?” A tell-tale voice breathes, and Dean can’t believe his eyes. Sam’s here. Right here. Right in front of Dean, glancing around in a bewildered manner.

Charlie and Anna can wait.

“Dean!” Sam gasps, latching onto Dean in the tightest hug he ever will receive. There’s that cold, wet feel of tears on his cheeks as Dean hugs Sam back. He could just close his eyes and pretend Sam is here to stay. Alive and breathing. Dean can hear Sam’s heart thumping in his chest, feeling the warmth radiating from his body.

It’s like he never left.

“I’ve missed you, Sammy.” Dean chokes, taking in a deep, shuddering breath and allowing the hug to last for what seems like an eternity. Sam doesn’t seem all too keen on letting go either, and so they just stand there, comforted by each other’s presence.

“I’m sorry I left you like this, Dean. I’m… I’m sorry.” says Sam, Dean shaking his head.

“Wasn’t your fault,” says Dean, “Some fucking bastard took your fucking life, and I… I wish they were gone, and not you, Sam.” Sam breathes, expression solemn.

They pull apart from the hug.

“There’s something important that I need to tell you, Dean,” his eyes squeeze shut for a moment, inhaling a ragged breath. “About my death.”

‘...Yeah?” Dean raises his eyebrows in question. Turning to Dean, Sam’s smile falters, dipping into an upset frown.

“As everyone knows, months have passed since my… passing. Yet… I couldn’t remember what happened until a few days ago when I saw Bobby and Rufus dig up my own body. Everything came back to me in an instant, and now, I… remember how I died. What I saw.”

The room is filled with a heavy silence.

Dean looking at Sam, who's looking at the hardwood floor, wringing his hands.

“The last thing I remember is coming back to Dad’s house after a night-run. I’d invited Cas, you know, my college buddy from Stanford, back for a coffee, ‘cuz we’d crossed paths when he was walking home to his parent’s house and I obviously… saw him on the street. But it was later, like later that night after Cas had gone home, that I… died.”

“I know the guy.” Dean grits his teeth, thinking about Castiel. He was right about Cas being the last one to see Sam alive. “Go o–”

“–Dad killed me, Dean.”

_“What?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 What you're about to read is an inaccurate representation of what happens when you find a dead body, especially one of a missing person. For one, in reality (outside of SPN canon), Bobby would not have brought Sam's corpse back to his house until the cops come to fetch it. In the given procedures, Bobby would've left the body exactly where he'd found it, not touching it at all, and instead called 9-1-1 and waited for the authorities to take things into their own hands. They would've transported Sam's body to a morgue where an autopsy would take place, and perhaps Bobby would be asked a few questions by the police about his discovery. They would allow Dean to see Sam's body after the autopsy, but the experience wouldn't be as described above. 
> 
> If I'd had the time, I would've rewritten this chapter (the entire fic, in essence) to fit a more realistic description of the events that occur after a traumatic scenario such as finding the corpse of your loved one, but as of late, it has been impossible to find the opportunity to do any more than minor edits. For that, I apologize. My sincere hope is that despite this fic's apparent flaws (trust me, I'm aware of them), you can enjoy the bittersweet story for what it is. :)  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]


	3. painted goodbyes

_“...when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist.” - Kurt Vonnegut_

_\---_

_‘Dad killed me, Dean.’ _

The damning words rock Dean’s world, his fists curling, knuckles white in anger.

_‘Their father? Why? Why would he shoot Sam, the favourite son?’_

“You’re… you’re... he what?” Dean’s mouth falls open, stumbling backwards.

“He killed me, Dean,” says Sam, gesturing at his forehead. “I saw him, you know… burying something. And you know what it was? A fucking human body! He’d killed someone else too, Dean! Buried us both! I followed him there, and he must’ve like, panicked, because he was pushing me, begging me not to hate him, and I fell back, hitting my head on a rock, and I… died. I didn’t even get the chance to ask him what the hell he was on about!”

_‘John Winchester is a murderer?’_

The worst their father did was drink himself to scorn. Dean knows from personal experience. Yes, he was a fucking angry drunk, yet John was a hermit. He never did leave the house, and Dean was the one to get the grunt of his outbursts, not Sam. Their dad is a murderer whose gotten away with killing not just anyone, but his own goddamn son.

_‘How are people going to know the truth if the one person who caught the killer in the act is dead?’_

Dean’s no detective either. In the broad sense of the word, he’s just an architect with an overdeveloped sense of justice. Their father should be rotting in a fucking jail cell right now, and he’s walked scot-free. There’s no way anyone can prove it was John that killed Sam, and it infuriates Dean. His blood is boiling, he needs to throttle someone, break something. How dare the shit-stain of a man even _think_ Dean would want him back in his life. No, if he could have his way, Dean would love nothing more than to kick Dad’s ass six ways to Sunday. 

Could Dean even call John their dad after the shit he’s done? To Dean, and now to Sam? Dean can forgive when he needs to, anyone could vouch for that after the shit he’s been through, but this? John killing his own fucking son and not even owning up to it? A resounding _‘No!’_ echoes in the rumbling caverns of Dean’s psyche. 

Distracted from his state of fury by Sam’s awkward pause, there’s a sudden surge of bone-chilling cold enfolding the house. It draws out a shiver from Dean, yet Sam doesn’t do so much as flinch. Maybe it’s a ghost thing? The temperature drop must’ve been set off by the eerie presence of Anna joining them because Sam drops his last topic and starts talking again.

“So, you’re Anna? Long red hair, hazel eyes, pale complexion? Yeah. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says in a curious tone. Sam pauses to let her speak. “You’re the one whose been haunting our house, haven’t you?” He chuckles, a foreign sound in such a heavy situation, but a welcome one. What confuses Dean is how Sam quietens. He steps back, a hand settling on what would be Anna’s shoulder. “I’m glad you finally get to pass on now. It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

Covered in dirt and a shovel in hand, Charlie strides into the house, expression blank. Mere moments ago, she’d seemed over the moon, jovial, thrilled to have Anna back, and yet as Dean watches Charlie trudge up the cobblestone path to the back-door of his house, Dean sees the change, notices the drag in her step, the slump in her shoulders. Her head lolls forward as her sunken eyes do, her lips pulled into a firm line.

_‘What happened out there?’_

Upon seeing Sam, she freezes, the clink of the shovel dropping to the floor snapping Dean out of his contemplative state of mind.

“...Sam? I–I thought you were murdered!” Shaking his head, Sam walks up to her, looming over her small frame.

“I was.”

“Dean summoned you?” She inquires, glancing over to look at Dean before launching herself into Sam’s arms in a bone-crushing hug. “We’re so glad you’re back! God!”

“I did.” says Dean, stepping forward. He’s not sorry for what he’s done.

“Did this… Cas, do it?” asks Charlie.

“No. He was the last person I saw before Dad, though, not counting the body Dad was burying.” Sam answers, picking at his t-shirt. Just like Dean nearly had, Charlie topples over, being caught in Sam’s grip.

“...John killed you?” She places a hand over her mouth, eyes growing wide.

“He–” Sam begins but is cut off by witnessing his hand vanish into thin air. With every passing second, his body begins to fade, solid flesh blooming into bone. Sam’s exposed skeleton cracks into crystalline shards, and the remnants float away like fresh flakes of snow. He’s quaking with violent shivers, shaking his head too fast. Dean feels his heart shatter at the spectacle, watching Sam attempt to conceal his tears. Charlie gently sweeps the hair out of Sam’s glassy eyes, her own mirroring that glint of grief and Dean pulls Sam into one last hug, stroking the nape of his neck in an effort to comfort him.

Sam latches onto Dean for dear life, his fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders with an iron grip as Charlie enfolds herself around him and Dean, her bottom lip quivering. Foggy eyes pulled wide, the loaded silence is punctuated by Sam’s jagged breaths. “What’s… what’s happening to me? Guys, what did I do?”

“Nothing, Sam. You’re… passing on. Someone’s put you to rest.” Charlie pulls back to cup Sam’s cheek with her hand, her own tears staining her features. Sam bites his tongue, nodding as she continues. “I guess you’ll… you’ll get to paint your sunset today. Rest well, Sam.”

“I know it’s not much help, but I’m gonna miss you, Sammy,” says Dean, limbs stiff with loss. “Hell, I… I fucking wish you could stay.” Sam’s arms are crushing Dean, his chest heaving with sobs. 

“I’m sorry,” His tone wobbles, a hollow voice cracking with another fit of silent sobs. “I’m… I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Nah, don’t be,” Dean almost whispers, sucking in shallow breaths. “S’okay. You… ya did great, bud.”

“No, Dean. It’s not okay! It’s everything but okay!”

“Sam,” Dean silences him, throat taut. “Listen here, and listen good. I promise I’m gonna be alright for your fucking sake, you hear me? I’m–gonna be okay. Swear on my goddamn soul.”

“Yeah, but Dean, I–” Sam’s gulping, blinking back tears as his form disappears into the dusk and the living-room floods with warmth after what feels like a lifetime. The lights blow out, a rush of wind swoops through the halls. Charlie’s there beside Dean on the floor, crumpled against his shoulder, fixated on the whispers of Sam’s fading soul dancing in the dusk. 

Sam’s spirit slits the sky open, letting it bleed. Bold, bloody paint-strokes drip onto the peachy orange clouds like an offering and the world drowns in magenta, doused in one bittersweet farewell. Dean slumps onto the floor, bathed in the golden hour glow.

He’s lost Sam. For good, this time.

This sunset, the one Dean has been dreading to see? This one _feels_ like Sam’s. 

\---

Sam’s funeral this morning had been a sobering event for all who’d attended. 

Everyone Dean knows had come, Jess, Charlie, Bobby, Ellen, who is Dean and Sam’s surrogate mother and Bobby’s wife, Jody, Donna, Benny, Kevin, and Jo. Jess’ family and other friends and colleagues of Sam’s that Dean hadn’t been introduced to beforehand were at the ceremony also. 

Having watched as Sam’s ashes were laid to rest in the cemetery at the back of the chapel where their mother also lays, Dean wants nothing more than to see him again, just one last time, and give Sammy the proper goodbye he deserved.

It was Bobby who had Sam’s rotting corpse cremated yesterday. It had taken Dean everything in him not to go off at Bobby for taking Sam away too soon because Bobby wouldn’t understand why without the context of Sam’s awakened ghost.

Dean knows Sam’s at peace now, however hard it is without him here. It’s the only small comfort Dean has in all of this. He can’t be sure, but he wants to trust it. Charlie had been choked up herself, worse than Dean, when the initial loss of Sam doubled to the cremation of Anna too.

Whilst Dean had been talking to Sam, Charlie had been outside in the back garden with Anna’s ghost. A sobering affair, as despite the reunion, Anna begged Charlie to put her to rest. Charlie was digging up Anna’s old bones for the first time since they’d been buried eight years earlier, hence why Charlie had entered the house holding a huge shovel that day.

It’s been heartwrenching for her, having to say goodbye to Anna as well as Sam. Dean had held her close as she wept, and wept, and wept. She’d done the crying for both of them, as Dean felt too numb to feel anything much else.

In comparison, Jess had been strong today. 

Her farewell to the love of her life had been a long, heartfelt one. An honest declaration of real love and deep loss that brought most people to tears if they weren’t there already. Dean himself had felt a few stray tears slip from his eyes, watching her determination.

Dean couldn’t help but be convinced that Sam Winchester was a beloved man, so wholly unlike himself. He had always been the favourite, the more popular one of them both ever since they were kids, even if Sam denied it every time. There were many occasions where Dean had wished he were more like Sam. Understanding like Sam was, soft like Sam was, real intelligent like Sam was. 

If it had been Dean’s funeral and not Sam’s, he’s sure no-one would’ve come along. In that sense, Sam would still be safe, and everyone else spared the pain of such a great loss.

An empty plate in hand, Dean stands at the front of the chapel near the pulpit, weaving around the guests who approach him with words of condolence. It all seems so shallow to him at this moment, the varying repetitions and renditions of _“I’m so sorry for your loss” _or _“Your brother’s in a better place now.”_

Dean wants to believe that sentiment. He’d felt it yesterday, watching that spattering of Sam’s soul swim across the sky like a paintbrush to a canvas. Sam’s goodbye wasn’t the most comforting one. Fading away, slumped in Dean and Charlie’s arms, his words cut off mid-sentence, Dean knew. 

Sam didn’t want to leave. 

His brother had gone kicking and screaming, demanding to know why. Dean witnessed it in Sam’s misty eyes, his set jaw, the way Sam spoke. If he’d had the chance, Sam would’ve held onto his life with an unholy grip, gritting his teeth as it was ripped from his being as a weed from the soil. The blood is on their father’s hands, a father who is no more a father than Dean is forgiving.

He sees him.

Standing in the doorway of the chapel, Dean sees him, eyes blazing red.

John Winchester is no blood of Dean’s blood, no more than a stranger with the same surname. How dare he stand here in this church! Who the fuck invited him to the funeral? 

Dean had thought he’d made it clear that he never wanted to see John again after he’d kicked Dean out of the family house that day back in 1997. He’d removed John from his life, he’d moved cities, even, anything to rid himself and Sam of that pathetic excuse for a father, and yet years later, here he is. The one time John bothers to show up is at Sam’s fucking funeral. Dean feels as if he has every right to be angry at the man.

_‘How dare you fucking act like you’re not the evil bastard who sent his own fucking son to the grave!’_

Dean’s resolve from earlier has not waned in the slightest. He rocks forward, resisting the urge to storm over to John and knock him out for a real one. Taking a seat on the edge of a church pew, Dean pauses to recollect himself. As much as he wants to inflict pain upon the murderer in their midst, to punch John’s lights out, to scream and curse at him for every wrong thing he’s ever done, there are other people here, not just John and Dean. Everyone, except Charlie, have no idea what happened, have no clue that John killed Sam. They only know of Sam’s body being found and that he’s finally been put to rest. 

Dean may be angry, he’s hurting like a motherfucker, yet he’s not a complete idiot. The only factor that’s really stopping Dean from following through on that white-knuckled desire is his respect for Sam. It’s Sam’s funeral, and Dean doesn’t want to ruin the bittersweet goodbye to his little brother by ruffing up their father in front of the congregation.

People seemed to have taken the hint that it’s time to leave by the time Dean calms himself down enough to thank them for coming to Sam’s funeral. Hallelujah, it’s finally over. 

Dean refuses to acknowledge John’s presence, not even sparing him a glance as Dean walks the others out of the church building. John stalks off soon afterwards, realizing he’s not welcome, and Dean sucks in a welcome breath. 

_‘Thank fucking God, he’s gone.’_

Thanking the staff for being a godsend, Dean takes his mind off things by helping clean up the venue alongside his closest friends. Jess is washing the dishes with Jo and Donna, and Jody’s vacuuming while Kevin shuts down the sound system. Benny and Charlie are out driving funeral guests home in the provided vans, and Dean and Ellen are in the back, checking around the premises for litter while Bobby deals with the catering staff. With so many hands at work, the otherwise daunting task is done in an hour or two. Once everything is locked up and ready to go, Bobby is the last one out of the chapel, pausing to talk to Father Crowe, the priest who’d led the ceremony, in the car park as Dean saunters past.

“Thank you, Father.” Dean nods at the priest, waving goodbye to his friends. He makes his way towards his beloved car, more than ready to head home after a taxing morning. Jess’ silver Prius is parked next to the Impala, and Dean snorts at the visual comparison. That little piece of crap car has nothing on his Baby. 

Noticing Jess slumped over in the driver's seat of said Prius, Dean leans over and taps on her window, sending her a sad smile. She rolls it down, wiping her eyes. 

_‘She’s been crying. Better be gentle.’_

“Jess, you did good out there.” Dean says in a soft tone, leaning his elbows on the car door. She inhales, brushing the dust off her black dress. 

“Thanks, Dean,” She nods, returning his smile. “...You did too.”

Now, that Dean finds hard to believe. He’s sure he’d resembled an emotionless statue the entire time, not wanting to break down in front of everyone. John was there in the front too, so Dean, gritting his teeth, had found it crucial to not fuck it up and ruin his late brother’s funeral. Jess was anything but closed off, and Dean could see why Sam had loved her so much. She was open and wise, willing to speak the truth about her feelings. 

In this case, about her loss. If it were Dean up there, sending off the love of his life, he’d struggle to say anything remotely personal. With Charlie, Jess, and their close-knit bunch, it’s easier, but in the face of acquaintances and strangers alike in such an emotionally-charged moment, Dean feels as if he’d be reduced to nothing more than a stuttering fool.

“Now, that I don’t agree with, but thanks.” Dean chuckles, reaching through the open window to pat Jess on the shoulder. “You good? Need me to drive you home or anything?”

“No, I think I’ll be okay,” Jess shakes her head, a sombre smile on her lips. “Will _you_ be okay, Dean?”

_‘I don’t know.’_

“I promised him I would be,” says Dean, leaning back and climbing into his own vehicle. Jess wouldn’t know that Dean meant he’d promised such a thing to Sam’s fading soul, she’ll just think he’s being metaphorical or something along those lines. He doesn’t mull over it for too long, either. The last thing Dean wants is for Jess to worry about him. “I’ll make sure to drop in sometime, see how you and the bun in the oven are doin’ and stuff. That cool with you?”

“Of course. We’d appreciate that, Dean.” Jess plugs in her seatbelt, starting the car engine. Before she rolls up the window to drive off, she exhales, “I don’t know why it’s so hard for me now. It’s like… he… uh, Sam’s been gone for over two months now and I’ve done okay,” She shrugs, chewing on her bottom lip, “I think, I don’t know, maybe it… I, maybe, I think it was because of some… part of me believed Sam was coming back, you know?” 

So, it wasn’t just Dean who’d felt that way, watching the sunsets and waiting for Sam to come back. Jess had too, the poor woman. She’d even moved out of her tiny apartment to live with Sam and Dean in their ‘haunted house’ for a while, sharing a room with Sam downstairs and Dean staying upstairs in the master suite. Times were simpler back then. Little did they know that a year or so later, Sam would be taken from their lives forever.

“Oh, trust me. I know,” Dean’s eyebrows quirk up, him giving Jess a little nod. “Same for me.” Jess looks him in the eye for a second, her pensive gaze understanding.

“Hmm. You and me both, huh.” 

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Welcome to the club.”

“I hate it, Dean.” Jess continues, resting her hands on the steering wheel. The two of them are alone in the carpark, the others must’ve gone home. If it weren’t for Jess, Dean would’ve been among them. He’s not pissy about that, though. Sam was just as important to Jess as he was to Dean, she knew him in ways as a brother, Dean never would. Those two had looked at each other like they’d hung the moon. Sam and Jess were gonna be parents, for crying out loud! How much of a selfish asshole would that make him if Dean chooses to cut her off?

As much as it fucking stings to remain close with someone who was so integral in Sammy’s life, a living, breathing reminder of what Dean has lost, he knows better than to leave Jess in the dust. As a single mom-to-be, she’s gonna need all the support from Dean and their friends as she can get, and that’s not gonna goddamn happen if Dean doesn’t do what Sam would ask him to do and look out for Jess and his future nephew. 

“Me too,” Dean huffs, opening Baby’s glovebox and rummaging through the numerous cassette tapes within it. “Fucking hell, I’d sell my own soul if it meant Sam would come back. I mean it, if I could, I would. Without a shadow of a doubt, I would.” 

Surprised, Dean finds himself telling the truth. In fact, there’s not much Dean _wouldn’t _do if it came to bringing Sam back from the dead. If he and Charlie could summon a ghost, maybe he could find a way to do - no, that’s fucking stupid. Dean berates his mind for even thinking of messing with such a thing as necromancy, no matter how that tempting thought slithers around his brain like a parasite. This grieving shit is messing with his head.

Sam’s gone. He’s passed on, he’s not here anymore. Dean, like everybody else in this world when they lose a loved one, has to accept it. He has to.

“I know you would, Dean,” Jess interrupts his train of thought, voice quiet. “I know I would.”

“Don’t think Sam would appreciate that, hon.” Dean allows himself to chuckle, having found the cassette tape he was looking for. It’s none other than Sam’s ‘secret’ mix, a cassette he’d left in Baby’s tape deck by accident one afternoon. He never gave it back to Sam, let alone told him about it, even if most of the songs weren’t Dean’s usual cup of tea. It was a real piece of Sam, in a way, because Dean knows most of these tracks were ones Sam wouldn’t dare to admit he liked in front of Dean. Dean would never have pegged his brother to be a Céline Dion fan, for one.

“He wouldn’t have if you did, either. You know that, Dean.” says Jess, looking Dean in the eye. Just because that would most likely be true concerning Sam doesn't mean that Dean wants to agree.

“Eh,” Dean snorts, eyes widening at his own actions. “Maybe.”

Jess must sense the oncoming tension because she changes the subject in an instant. Sore spot, smore spot, Dean doesn’t know. It’s hard to tell _why_ he’s feeling the way he’s feeling. Might as well go look for a needle in a haystack because there’s no way Dean can figure out where the pain is bleeding from. His heart, perhaps? Metaphorically, literally, who gives a fuck?

All he does know is that this… whatever the hell you could call it, goddamn fucking sucks.

“Should I expect you sometime next week?”

“Yeah. I’d say so,” Dean replies, turning the keys and listening to Baby’s engine purr with life. “Depends on how much of those library plans I get done, but no, you got it. I’ll call you beforehand, so you, uh, know when to expect me.”

“Okay,” says Jess, pulling out of her parking spot. “See you later, Dean. Have a good evening.”

“Take care, Jess.” Dean nods in farewell, driving home. He and Jess must’ve been out there for hours.

Parking Baby in his garage, Dean exits the car, his arms laden with uneaten trays of fruit from the funeral. He’s never been a fruit muncher like Sam was, but they’re good for the guests. Good for desserts too, when Dean’s in the mood to bake. Dumping the trays and his keys on the kitchen bench, the metal clattering against the marble benchtop, he sighs. God, he’s dog-tired. Exhausted. It’s been a long, long day.

Pacing around the hardwood floors of his now truly empty house, Dean wanders the halls like a disoriented ghost, his fingertips brushing against the walls below the framed photographs and random art-prints he and Sam had collected over the years. He breathes in the familiar musk of dewy houseplants and old books on the shelves, tastes the dusty air. Sunlight spills through the bay windows at the end of the hall, golden wisps tangling atop of the hardwood floor. The west wing buzzes with a warmth so foreign, Dean almost misses the ethereal chill. It had grounded him, reminded him of what he could not see. 

A lone chair sits before the window, a worn novel perched on the little table beside it. Dean knows that book, he’s seen it in the hands of his brother, time and time again. He knows the words contained within it, the dog-eared pages marking his and Sam’s favourite passages. 

That book, Dean’s favourite book, is a memoir of their past, a visual artefact of a sweet life once lived. Besides the silver ring forever adorning his finger, all Dean has left of Mary Winchester is this tattered copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s _Slaughterhouse-Five_, swiped from the shelves of her personal library.

It feels like a sin to touch it, to disturb the scene. The snapshot of Sam’s life, frozen in Dean’s denial, is one of many. Spread throughout his house, his lonely abode, Dean lives in a museum of memories, polishing the metaphorical glass of the exhibits. His eyes catch the red door of Sam’s old bedroom, and Dean’s heart sinks into his gut. 

Nobody had dared venture in there since Sam’s disappearance. It was an unspoken rule not to. There was never a need for Dean to do anything with that bedroom, so Dean chose to leave it as it always was. He’d hoped Sam would reclaim it as his, that Jess would come back to live there. Sam was going to move out when his and Jess’ kid was born, and that was going to be a difficult move separating from Dean for the first time in over a decade. Thinking on it, Dean would’ve looked him in the eye as he and Jess carried their stuff out of the cottage, resenting Sam a little bit for leaving in the first place, but Dean would take that over Sam being dead and gone any day. He’d go as far as being content with Sam and Jess moving back to California, hell, even flying out to another country, another continent. A place where Dean could visit, dammit! 

Sam and Jess were gonna tie the knot in April, a month before she’s due. Dean would’ve had a sister in law, someone to gossip about Sam with. He would’ve been Sam’s best man, embarrassing him in front of their closest friends, taking too many shots at the tiki bar and dancing the night away in the arms of a pretty wedding guest. If Sam had lived, Dean would’ve gotten to be a loving uncle to Sam and Jess’ kid, a home away from home for the little Winchester family that would’ve been. Yes, Dean will become an uncle, but it won’t be the same. Sam’s child will never know their father. There’s a hollow ache in his chest at the knowledge that none of these things will come true except for his niece or nephew being born. Entertaining this unimaginable reality that Sam was coming back, just weeks before Dean’s eyes were opened to the truth, had been so much easier. 

Dean finds his feet carrying him to stand outside the door of Sam’s bedroom, staring at it. His breaths cut short, tongue wetting the edge of his lips. Fear is bitter, dead drunk. Truth is honey-sweet bile, burning in the mouth. The doorknob is right there, close enough for Dean to reach out and twist open.

Yet, he can’t do it. He can’t open the door.

His hand wavers, lurching back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Teetering underneath him like he’s a man at sea, Dean’s legs wobble, his knees buckle, his arms shake. It’s like Dean’s at the morgue all over again, about to see his brother’s corpse.

_‘One step at a time, alright? One step at a time.’_

The ache is familiar, yet it’s new. Stinging, burning, biting, it hits him no less gentle than a fractured bone being snapped in two before it got the chance to fully heal.

Everything reminds him of Sam. Every little fucking thing. 

Dean felt him in the 80’s music playing on Baby’s speakers during Dean’s drive home, in the sight of his blasphemous iPod dock, in the whiff of Sam’s designer cologne leached into the aged leather of the passenger seat. Sam lives on in the blooming garden out back, in the numerous old books scattered around the halls with his handwriting in them, in the tangy crunch of his favourite ginger slice he used to beg Dean to bake every weekend, in the records he used to collect, his favourite brand of coffee.

Do people truly die? Can someone leave and never leave a single trace? 

Even in the smallest ways, in whispers, mere mentions of a past name or deed, something always remains. Death isn’t the end of a story, it can’t be. It’s the passing of the torch, Dean thinks, when you reach the final stop in a roadtrip across the country before you wander on home. It’s nothing near a black and white ending, the clean-cut finale in a Hollywood production.

Grief is ugly, and it’s cruel. It’s the shades of grey in a technicolour view. His vision is jaded blue, tinging the world dark. Stuck in front of his brother’s old bedroom door, seeing nothing but its red paint, Dean doesn’t care about anything looking nice. He’s struggling to see the point in trying to. 

There are tears welling up in his eyes, and anger simmering in his veins. He wants to run, to sob, he wants to kill a man, to deny it all and drink himself stupid, to lose himself in pleasure with the aim to forget. Being alone is as good as being dead. 

Stood in front of Sam’s old bedroom door, Dean wishes he had a Jess, someone he could come home to, someone who’d hold him close and try to stitch him back together as Ellen had with Bobby after Karen passed. He misses his mom, he misses Sam, he even misses Cassie Robinson, who’d left him years ago. Sure, Dean has his friends, but he doesn’t want to share that pain with just anyone. He craves for an answer, for a reason to keep going because Dean doesn’t give a flying fuck about what happens to him. He just needs _Sam_. 

Yet, Sam isn’t here. He’s not coming back. How many times does Dean have to remind himself?

A foolish thought rises to the surface of his head, tapping on the glass of his mental window. Dean summoned Sam once, maybe he could do it again. What if he does the summoning ritual again and Sam does appear? Remembering what he and Charlie had researched, Dean takes a step back, rolling his shoulders. 

_‘I’ve got nothing to fucking lose.’_

“Samuel William Winchester,” he whispers, tasting the desperation rising up in his throat, fingers clasped around the Samulet. Sam doesn’t show face, and Dean resists the urge to punch the door because the sobering realist in him is threatening to take charge.

“Why can’t I have the one damn thing I’m begging for? What do I have to do to get him back?” Dean shouts at no-one, lips curled into a resentful snarl. The sob fest is over, he’s ready to burn. His gut instinct is jeering at him, pointing the finger in his direction. 

_‘You’re a fool!” _it cackles at him, and Dean shakes his head, unwilling to give up. _‘Look at you now!’_

‘I said, Samuel William Winchester!” His heartbeat thumps at the speed of a ticking clock. The thrum in his chest does anything but slow, every one of his blood cells buzzing with adrenaline. That foreboding ache buries itself in Dean’s lungs, settles within his veins.

“What am I doing wrong?” 

He says the name like a solemn chant, over and over again. Like a broken record, Dean repeats Sam’s name, hoping, praying for an outcome he knows won’t happen. Fingers stinging, Dean tugs on the Samulet tighter and tighter, feeling the rope pull against his neck. The pain grounds him. Dean can’t control the way his bottom lip quivers or pretend the venom of the tears pooling in his eyes wasn’t first flooding his brain. He can only deny it, pretend he’s not hurting. God, he’s a fucking mess. 

“Samuel...William...Winchester,” Dean chokes, slumped against the wooden door. “I… I summon you. I summon you,” His wavering tone breaks mid-syllable and he cringes, resting his temple against the door. “Sammy, come on! Please!”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean tries the number-counting method again, his now-red fingers stretched out, nails scratching the wooden grain of the bedroom door. 

_One, two, three, four, five, six... seven, _

_Seven… six, five, four, three… two, one._

_One, two… three, four-five, six, seven,_

_Seven, six, five… four, three-two...God-fucking dammit!_

Hunched against the door, head bowed and heart heavy, Dean sobs into his hands. 

_‘I lied, Sam! I lied!’_

He’s completely, utterly alone.


	4. painted promises

_“I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.” - Kurt Vonnegut_

\---

The knock on the back door startles Dean, causing him to spill the flour he’s pouring into his mixing bowl. He’d woken up that morning with an urge to bake, but judging from the amount of flour and sugar spilt on the floor, it looks like he’ll have to start over. Cursing under his breath, Dean grumbles, brushing the powdery mess off of his apron and pausing his music.

“Every time!” He rolls his eyes, hoping it’s no one important. His apron, a neon pink monstrosity, was a Secret Santa present from a few years back, and even though it was a gag gift, Dean had kept the ugly thing out of spite. Whoever’s at that goddamn door better not give him the wicked side-eye for wearing it, because one: he can wear whatever the hell he wants, and two: Dean doesn’t do judgemental folks. 

With a deep breath, Dean saunters to the far side of the kitchen, mussing his hair. Standing behind the back-door, peering through the window, is Cas. 

_‘What’s he doing here?’_

“Cas?” Dean cocks his head to the side, opening the door for his visitor. “Heya.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas returns the greeting, stepping inside the kitchen. “I knocked at your front door, but I don’t think you heard me.” He must’ve arrived during the baking fiasco. Over his blaring rock music, Dean couldn’t hear much else. 

“No, you’re good. Was a bit held up, that’s all. What brings you around so soon?” Dean answers. Shrugging off his coat, Cas rolls it up in his arms, placing the garment on top of the bench.

“Well, when I left your house last, I dropped my studio key on the way out. I’m kind of embarrassed to bother you a second time like this, Dean,” says Cas, his expression apologetic as Dean shrugs him off. “–but I need to get into my studio, and I can’t exactly do so without that key. I’m sorry to drop in unannounced. Again.”

“You have a studio?” Dean remarks, raising his eyebrows, not too worried about Cas’ surprise visit. They might as well be his signature trademark, beside his hideous trench coat. “For what? Porn?”

“Photography,” Cas replies, shrugging. Does the man have his own photography studio? Sam never told Dean this. Maybe it’s a new job, an expensive hobby. “It’s a photography studio.” Dean blinks.

“Seriously?”

“Well, I’m a landscape photographer. I do other projects on the side, of course, but mostly that.”

“Well, damn.” Out of all the careers Dean suspected Cas to be in, photography was not one of them. Dean was thinking more along the lines of a college professor, maybe a doctor? A lawyer like Sam was, even?

“You look surprised.” A smile cracks at the corner of Castiel’s mouth, and Dean looks at him incredulously.

“It just… wasn’t what I was expecting!” Dean gestures at Cas, noting the subtle chuckle slipping from his lips. “Like, you, a photographer of all things? You might as well be saying Indiana Jones was a massage therapist, or that Robin Hood was a cab driver! At first glance, it doesn’t… uh, fit?” Shaking his head, Castiel squints at Dean. 

_‘What’s goin’ on in that weird mind of yours, huh?’_

“Aren’t you an architect?” Cas asks all of a sudden, features curled into a pondering expression.

“I didn’t spend eight years working my ass off in college for nothing, ya know,” says Dean. “Why? Thought I was the tooth fairy or something?” Castiel rolls his eyes, snorting at Dean’s comeback. Dean’s pleased with himself for that.

“No, Dean. I didn’t,” says Cas in a straight tone, rolling his shoulders. There’s a hint of amusement in there somewhere. “I also thought you would’ve been in a… different vocation. You know how you thought I should’ve been a doctor or a college professor? Same thing.”

“Is that so?” says Dean, mimicking Cas’ actions. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Before Sam told me what your job was, I thought you were a police officer or something. Maybe an engineer? A mechanic? Not an architect, though. That was a surprise to find out.” says Cas.

“Man, I guess it’s like they always say. Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Dean exhales, leaning against the kitchen bench. Something about Castiel is intriguing. Dean can’t put a finger on it just now, but for some reason he finds himself wanting to know more about his brother’s old friend. Maybe it’s for that exact reason. 

Cas is a living souvenir of Sam’s life to Dean, and despite Sam’s passing being a sore spot, Castiel’s presence doesn’t evoke much aside from quiet nostalgia. Fond memories and good times are all that’s coming to Dean’s mind as he stands beside Cas. He almost forgets why Cas is here in the first place until he notices Cas stepping back from the counter, his pink lips resting in a neutral smile.

“Hey, before we get distracted, would you help me find my studio key?” asks Cas, running a hand through his messy hair. If Dean didn’t know any better, looking at the bird’s nest on top of Cas’ head, he’d think the man had just rolled out of bed. Did he? Dean finds himself wondering if Cas is a morning person like Sam was or a night owl like he is. 

Little things.

Dean wants to know the little things.

“Sure,” Dean crosses his arms, pasting on a playful smirk. “If–” The way Cas’ eyes widen at that pause in Dean’s speech amuses Dean to no end. Cas quietly huffs, scratching the back of his neck.

“If?” Cas blinks, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. Dean chuckles at the image, saving it for a future nickname.

“–If you let me come with ya,” Dean finishes his sentence and Cas lets out a visible sigh of relief. What was he expecting Dean to say? Something risque? “To your studio. I wanna know if you’re telling me the truth about this photography jazz.”

“Oh?” Cas cocks an eyebrow. His current position vaguely reminds Dean of a sheriff leaning his back against the wall of the saloon in leisure, his legs stretched in front of him, hands shoved in his pockets and a cowboy hat shielding his face from the baking sun. “You think I’m lying.”

“Well hey, without physical proof, I have no reason to believe ya, Chuckles. That’s just how it is.” Dean laughs at Cas rolling his eyes at him, his deadpan expression simmering.

“Doubting Thomas, is that you?” Cas chuckles at his own joke and Dean pretends to not understand it. Nerd. “Alright, Dean. You can come with me to my studio if you drive us there. I walk usually, but it’s started raining, and I think you and I both would prefer to stay dry.”

“Eh, sounds fair. Any chance to take my Baby out is a good one in my books.”

With that, they begin the search for Cas’ studio key. It takes a few minutes of crawling under tables and swiping under chairs - while trying not to snort at how ridiculous they look doing so, but Dean finds the key lodged underneath one of the couch cushions in the living room. Cas thanks him and Dean leads them out to the garage where Baby’s parked.

“We good to go?” Dean asks, hopping into the driver’s seat and turning the key in the ignition. “You gotta give me directions, though, ‘cause I have no idea where your studio is and that’s where we’re goin’.”

“I can do that.” Castiel nods, having thrown on the trench coat again and slides into the passenger seat. Sam always used to sit there when he was alive. It stings a little to see someone that isn’t his brother sitting shotgun.

“Thank Jesus,” Dean remarks, pulling out of the driveway and heading down the block. He’s not gonna dwell on that right now. No, today is gonna be a good one, a day out with his old friend. “You’re my personal GPS, Casanova. Tell me where to go.”

“To my studio, hopefully,” Cas mutters, straightening his tie. Who knew Cas could dish out the snark? Add that to the list of things Dean has found out about Castiel Novak in one damn day. “Also… Casanova? Really, Dean?”

“I could go back to calling ya Sherlock if you prefer. I’m not picky here.” By the way Cas groans in exasperation, Dean figures Cas is so very enthused to have a nickname of his own. Dean reckons the salty grump of a photographer should feel honoured to be renamed by the one and only Dean Winchester. Not everyone gets that opportunity. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“Aha! Casanova it is.” 

Turning onto the main road, Dean dials up the volume up on the radio, the familiar grit of classic rock music reaching out and calming his soul better than any medicine. Castiel leans against the door on his side, staring out the window. They don’t talk much more, as Cas is preoccupied with giving Dean directions to his studio and Dean himself is humming along to good ol’ Led Zeppelin. 

One thing he knows for certain is holy hell, it feels good to be out of the house. Even if the weather is shit, Dean is happy to be doing something that doesn’t include mulling over Sam’s passing. Thanks to Cas, today he gets to take part in something somewhat _normal_. 

At Cas’ instruction, Dean pulls up in front of a block of sage-green apartments, parking Baby on the side of the road. As they stroll through the front entrance, Cas explains that his sheltered car spot has been taken by someone else, otherwise he would have welcomed Dean to use it. Cas’ studio, in particular, is nestled on the top floor, a bay apartment, and to get there, you have to take the stairs. Dean silently curses whoever or whatever broke the elevator as they walk past.

By the time they reach the front door of Cas’ studio, Dean’s wanting a coffee and a place to sit. He’s not unfit, so to speak, but he’s always had a certain dislike for staircases. For all he knows, it probably stemmed from watching _The Exorcist_ when he was a kid or something. Although… elevators? They’re not so good either - not that Dean’s ever gonna say anything about it.

“Welcome to my home away from home.” Cas unlocks the door, letting Dean step inside. He peers around and damn, it’s a spanking good apartment. Shiny hardwood floors, gigantic windows, a Turkish rug that looks the size of Texas. Cas’ photography equipment is arranged neatly on a wide-spanning shelf across the back wall, his computer desk tucked in front of it. 

The place is spotless except for a few empty coffee cups left here and there. It’s hard to believe this is only a studio, an office, and not Cas’ home. Dean’s office at Adler Architecture isn’t half as big as this place, let alone as flash. He’s not jealous (maybe envious), because if Cas got this place, he obviously worked hard for it, but Dean is surprised to see the evidence of Cas’ profession ringing true in the direction of photography. 

Not to mention, this is the kind of pad you’d want to take your plus one home to when it’s time to impress ‘em. Does this place have a bed, even? Has Cas taken someone back to this place? Did he photograph it? Does Cas even do casual hookups as he used to while in college? 

_‘Why am I even thinking these things?’_

“Dean?” Cas peers at him, his demeanour curious. Nodding, Dean ambles over to where Cas is. Bent over his desk, Cas fumbles with the many folders and papers shoved into the shelves above, clearly looking for something. Dean steps back to give Cas some space as he sorts through the drawers, shelves and files with a focused frown on his face.

Forgetting about the fact his friend isn’t an idiot, Dean keeps getting distracted by Cas. Unlike when they’d met on Dean’s doorstep that one night, or when Cas had visited only to be questioned to an inch of his life by Dean and Charlie, they’re not at Dean’s house, they’re at Cas’ studio. He doesn’t have the home advantage this time, Cas does, and for some reason, that makes Dean ill at ease. 

One major factor Dean didn’t bring into consideration before asking Cas to let him visit said studio was how good the lighting would be inside. For fuck’s sake, it’s a photographer’s hideout, it’s going to be well-lit, and when your friend just so happens to have a nice face and a great ass, they’re impossible to miss. So, you feel guilty about noticing because you’re not supposed to do shit like that for too long - unless you’re vouching for something more than friendship. At this moment in time, Dean tells himself he isn’t looking for more than a casual fling, either.

Dean’s too caught up in trying to direct his attention to anywhere other than Cas’ well-built figure to notice Cas’ approach, jolting in surprise when Cas taps on his shoulder. There’s a quiet chuckle from behind him, and for a moment, Dean anticipates his death. Clearly, someone needs to get back into self-care, in the literal sense.

“I see you were admiring the artwork?” The corners of Cas’ mouth twitch upward, and Dean stumbles over, eyes blown wide. The guilt is real, even if Cas seems cool about it. Blinking a few times, Dean nods, picking at his shirt. No words fall out of his mouth. 

“As I’ve probably told you, I tend to focus on landscape photography. You know, vast horizons, rolling hills, stunning starscapes and visions of nature, I try to capture it all.” Cas goes on to continue, seemingly letting Dean off the hook. There’s a hint of an innuendo there, Dean’s sure of it. He doesn’t know how to react, which is a first for someone like Dean, who is used to being one step ahead of everyone else. He’d learned to be for Sam’s sake, especially after their mother had died and John went off the wall in his grief. 

Stating the obvious, it’s not as if Cas didn’t notice Dean’s wayward gaze. He’s not blind, and if his amused expression is anything to go by, it’s a confirmation of the fact. Cas, according to what Sam’s told Dean before, is almost impossible to get past. He notices things, remembers them.

_‘Where’s the lie?’_

His gracious treatment of Dean more or less proves Cas is still the polite fucker Dean knew from college after all. Dean would be lying if he said he was surprised by that discovery.

“Damn. It looks… really good. Like, seriously good.” Dean pauses to gaze up at the cluster of framed photographs hung upon Cas’ walls. A lot of them are accompanied by excerpts from various magazines, all of the shots having his name underneath them. There are awards and written letters interspersed between the pictures, it all coming together in a crowd across the wall. The natural light surrounding him and Cas, dimmed by the overhanging clouds, is sunlit soft.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas shrugs, lurching forward to straighten a crooked picture frame. “It’s taken long enough to get this far, believe me. I’ve more or less sacrificed everything for this job.”

_‘Why do those words sound so familiar?’_

Dean knows exactly why.

“I could say the exact same thing about my own job. It’s shit hours but great pay.” he says, and Cas nods in agreement, blowing the dust off another frame. These photographs must be special to him. It strikes Dean as the first thing he’s seen Cas keep that wasn’t something necessary. Even at first glance, Dean never pegged Cas as the sentimental type. Cas’ office is a pretty damn good indicator of that, and so was his and Sam’s shared apartment back in the day. 

True to his family name, Dean is sentimental. Hell, Sam was sentimental when he was alive. The Winchesters have always held onto things, held onto lives long lost, onto friends long gone. Sam had kept things like family photographs, his old records (which now live in Dean’s house), and his favourite baseball glove in his room. 

Cas, on the other hand, had brought the term ‘a simple life’ to a whole other level. With Dean not being as familiar with Cas’ background as Sam had been, Dean can’t conjure up a promising theory explaining why Cas has always lived such a minimal lifestyle, ever since Sam knew him, at least.

What has Dean curious is the cardboard box sat on the floor beside the windows. While Cas is still sorting through his shelves, Dean creeps over to the conspicuous box, itching to know what’s inside of it. Stuff to chuck out, maybe? A package from overseas?

The rustle of Dean opening the box must alert Cas, because it’s within a moment’s notice that he’s stood beside Dean, peering into it. The guy doesn’t miss a thing, Dean swears under his breath. Cas stiffens when he sees the contents of the box, his arms folding behind his back.

It’s more of Cas’ framed photographs. 

“No,” Cas closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He shakes his head, wringing his hands. “Dammit! No, it can’t be!”

“Cas?” Dean frowns, placing a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Man, what’s wrong?” 

Glaring into the distance, Cas grabs onto Dean’s shoulders, leaning in so close to his face that Dean can feel Cas coffee-tinged breath on his chin, his skin tingling in its wake. Dean freezes in Cas’ grasp, unable to do much aside from stare back into Cas’ eyes, his mouth parted, breath hitching in his throat. 

“Dean, I’ve been fired!” Cas growls, his pent-up frustration evident in his tone. This must be something that has been simmering under the surface for a long time, as Dean has never seen Cas this way before. Frankly, Dean’s growing more and more concerned. Cas is angry, and it’s unsettling to see him like this. Dean’s only ever witnessed Cas as being some incarnation of a living epitome of the Hollywood gentleman, minus the silver tongue. Of course, Dean understands that Cas is human, and humans get pissed all the time, yet it’s hard to take in. 

Cas isn’t finished, however, because he’s talking again and Dean listens, knowing better than to disregard Cas’ feelings. It’s what Dean used to do with Sam when he lashed out. Angry folks don’t give a flying fuck about anything until they’re no longer angry, and that number includes Castiel - and Dean for that matter. Heaven knows how Dean feels about John, about his childhood.

“They brought in a new boss, Naomi Clarke, to replace Chuck three months ago,” says Cas, explaining his anger. “I thought everything would be fine, as it had been for the last decade or so of my life, but I swear to God Almighty, that asshole has always had something against me, Dean. She’s been trying to move my things out of my office ever since she took charge!”

“Jesus, Cas! That long?” Dean’s jaw drops in shock. He glances over to the box on the floor and his eyes travel to a little shelf behind the front door. There are more boxes like this one on top of it, and Dean exhales in irritation. 

_‘She really fired him? After all the shit Cas has done for them? What a prick!’_

“Yes,” Cas sighs, recomposing himself. “I guess this is it,” he says, hoisting the box into his arms. Dean doesn’t notice anything about Cas’ biceps flexing under his shirt. Okay, maybe a little, but it means nothing. “A... new chapter in life. Yeah.”

“That’s the one!” Dean nods, patting him on the shoulder. “Yeah, you’re just takin’ a detour, no biggie. Do ya wanna take your shit home now or wait till you get the official pink slip?”

“I’ve more or less been given it,” says Cas, walking over to the door and placing the box down for a moment to open said door. “Let’s go, Dean. I can show you what I wanted to show you when we get back to yours.”

“Ooh la la, Casanova! Like it when you take charge like that.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows, taking another one of the moving boxes and making his way downstairs, trailing behind Cas, who rolls his eyes so hard they could get stuck looking back into his skull instead of out of it.

“You know what? I despise you.” Cas deadpans, yet Dean can peek the hint of laughter in his tone. Got ‘em.

“Yeah, yeah, old news,” says Dean, opening Baby’s trunk once they get down to her. The rain isn’t too heavy, thank fuck, but it’s constant. “Good thing you’re not much of a hoarder. Makes our job easier.” 

“I only keep what I need. It’s easier that way.” says Cas, placing another box in the back. Dean raises an eyebrow, shutting the trunk.

“What do you mean, exactly?” Dean asks, noting the visual pause in Cas’ movements. 

_‘Did I just make him uncomfortable?’_

“Well,” Cas begins, chewing on his bottom lip, “It just… is. Being sentimental is a sign of one’s inability to move on from the past, don’t you think? Why keep physical reminders of a life no longer lived when you have the memories?”

Dean frowns, leaning on Baby’s hood. There’s another box up in Cas’ office, but that can wait for now. He needs to explain to Cas that he’s not right. It isn’t even Dean that Cas’ is talking about, and yet for some reason, Dean feels exposed. Vulnerable. 

“Because memories are fickle, Cas. You, of all people, should know that. You’re a goddamn amnesiac!” Dean gestures, brows knitted together in annoyance. Why did hearing Cas say those words sting so damn much? Dean has no clue, but hell, he needs to say something. “Being sentimental isn’t being weak, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s choosing to remember the important crap that happens in your life because when you catch yourself feeling like shit, in case you haven’t noticed, memories aren’t all that reliable, man!” Cas squints at Dean, his hands digging in his pockets. 

“But… doesn’t that… well, lead to getting caught up in the past rather than focusing on the now… and in the future? To be frank with you, Dean, I don’t understand why one should dwell on it any more than they have to. There are always more important things to think about.” says Cas, his tone calm. He stares, unblinking, into the distance, not bothered by the pouring rain in the slightest. Dean’s frown deepens, almost forming into a scowl at Cas’ words. It’s like he’s going right for the gut, it hurts. 

Judging from that choice of words, however, Cas sounds more like a man with a lot of secrets. From Dean’s experience, no one talks like that unless they’ve had a bad run-in with something. As Cas talks, Dean can smell the self-projecting bullshit from a mile away. If anyone can spot a hurting soul when they see one, it’s Dean. 

“Right, now I don’t know what happened to you to make ya think like that, Cas, but hear me out,” Dean scoots to the edge of Baby’s bonnet so he can get a better look at Cas, who's still standing as stiff as a pole. “I think you need to reconsider your stance because you can’t keep pretending shit never happened in your life forever. It’ll eat you from the inside out before you realise, trust me, I know!”

“Do I?” asks Cas, his eyes meeting Dean’s. He frowns slightly, squinting in concern. Dean grimaces, noting that expression of curiosity etched onto Cas’ features. The man better not speak unless he wants to start a fight.

“Yeah, I think you do.” Dean shrugs, pushing himself from off the bonnet. Pasting on a nonchalant smile, he raises an eyebrow at Cas. “What was it that you said you wanted to show me? Is it like, a photo or something?”

“Oh,” Cas’ gaze flickers to the ground before bouncing up again. “Yes, it is.”

“Awesome. Should I get the last box or…” asks Dean, gesturing to the top of the apartment block where Cas’ office is as if he doesn’t know where it is.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll get it,” says Cas with a polite nod. “I can lock up the office and hand in the keys that way, too.”

“Right, good point. I’ll just, uh, wait out here, then.” 

With that, Cas jogs back into the building and Dean hops into the car, turning on the radio. The music drifts over his ears like a warm breeze, interrupted by the slap of Cas' hand against the car door. Sitting up, Dean glances back to see Cas nodding his head towards the door he's standing beside, a box perched in his arms. Dean unlocks the door, and Cas places the box in the backseat before crawling over to the passenger seat and buckling his seatbelt. 

"That's everything," says Cas, brushing the dust off his trench coat. "We can leave here now if that's what you want to do." Nodding, Dean starts Baby's engine and pulls out from the side of the road. The rain hasn't lessened in its consistency, yet Dean likes the pattering against the car roof. It's relaxing.

As anticipated, Cas doesn't press Dean to converse with him, and Dean doesn't attempt to keep the banter going the moment it dies. His mind is racing at a million miles an hour, you could say he's a little preoccupied. 

When they pull up at Cas' apartment, a cold shiver runs down his spine. The lot looks too clean, creepily perfect. Does anyone even live here aside from Cas? It looks like no one has set foot in this lot for months. As Cas unlocks the door to his humble abode, Dean glances around, looking for any signs of the neighbours. There are none, and it rubs him the wrong way. He doesn't like the vibe this place has, doesn't like how haunted it feels. 

Is Cas even aware of the existence of ghosts? 

Is he a believer, like Sam was, or a sceptic like Dean was... is? Maybe that's something he can ask Cas himself. Wouldn't it be weird as hell if Cas' apartment is haunted by a ghost, like Dean's house used to be? Kinda metal, but kinda freaky.

"Make yourself at home." says Cas, unlocking the front door. He holds it open for Dean as he steps through, and Dean nods in thanks. Perhaps, he'll hold off on the ghost questions for now.

Venturing inside Cas' apartment, rubbing his hands together for warmth, Dean's suspicions are confirmed. Cas is a cut-throat minimalist. Dean's never seen anything like this before in his life. Aside from a small television, a nice leather couch, a coffee table, two wooden shelves, a tiny table and some chairs - the bare essentials, as Cas would say - the apartment is stripped bare. 

_'What is up with this crap? It's like no one lives here!'_

Dean flops onto the couch, noting the lack of pillows, and raises his eyebrows at Cas in question, who's strolling over to the kitchen. 

"I'm not home much," Cas sighs. It certainly looks like that's the case. "Would you like tea or coffee? Something to eat?"

"Coffee sounds good, thanks. Remember how Sam used to take his? I take it the same." says Dean, looking over at Cas as he stands over the kitchen bench and pulls out two cups. 

"Of course, I do. I've had it memorized for years." Cas scoffs like he's offended Dean would think Cas would forget such a thing.

"Really? You’d make it for him a lot, did you?" asks Dean, growing curious. "Mind if I put on a movie or something?"

"I don’t mind, and I did, yes. Back at Stanford, Sam and I had a routine where he would wake up first and go on his morning run, and I'd wake up later and leave his coffee out on the bench for him before I left for my morning lecture," Cas answers, walking over with two coffees in hand. Dean takes the one Cas offers him and says his thanks before grabbing the TV remote and flipping channels. "You remember what it's like. Morning classes were the bane of every student's existence."

"Damn straight! You two sure were organized," Dean remarks, taking a sip of his drink. "Charlie and I were good flatmates back in the day, not gonna lie, but I sure as hell can't say we did shit like make each other coffee at the same time every morning before early classes. You and Sam sound like you were the college-kid dream team, man."

None of the shows on the television catch Dean's attention, so he places the remote back where he found it on the arm of the couch and sets his attention on Cas, curled up on the opposite end of the seat. Looking to his left, Dean peeks a fireplace tucked into the opposite wall and silently exclaims in victory. It would be so much cosier if they had it on, albeit intimate.

"Not always," Cas shakes his head, a fond look on his face. He and Sam were close friends, some may even say they were once best friends. Yet, when Dean hung out with the two, it never did feel like he was intruding. Even when Jess came into the picture a few years later, Cas and Sam were still joined at the hip for years. It wasn't until Sam and Jess moved back to Lebanon after graduating that they and Cas truly parted ways. "For a long time, we simply kept to ourselves. Different majors, after all. It wasn't until I walked in on him–"

"Oh, God–"

"–Reading Slaughterhouse-Five–" Cas emphasizes the word 'reading' with a tired glare. Dean holds his hands up in apology, and Cas rolls his eyes before continuing. There’s a hint of amusement in there, though. “–in the kitchen one day, and commented on his choice of novel. We started talking about the book, about Vonnegut, and the rest is history, as they say."

"Slaughterhouse-Five, huh? I know a thing or two about that tale." says Dean, thinking of his mother's tattered copy living in his house. Most wouldn't peg Dean as the bookworm type, and he wouldn’t say he’d qualify as one, but there was something about that novel that he was drawn to. Billy seemed like a dude Dean would get along with, or maybe he wouldn't. He had a lot of wise things to say about life, for sure. Not to mention the dusty nostalgia Dean contracts every time he so much as glances at a copy of it. 

Both Mom and Sam loved Vonnegut, as does Dean. He grew up hearing her read Slaughterhouse-Five aloud while their father cooked dinner, listened to her quote it in passing. When she died, Dean would read the book, her personal copy in fact, to Sam before bed, including the curse words (their mom used to gloss over them if Sam and Dean were around, Dean had discovered as a kid). To this day, that story still reminds him of Mom, and now Sam.

"You like it?" asks Cas, and Dean snorts, swirling the coffee around in his mug. "It's quite dark, but the themes are thought-provoking. A good read."

"Do I like it?" Dean laughs, shaking his head. "Dude, it's my favourite book of all time. I used to read it to Sammy when we were kids."

"Now that you mention it, I do think he told me." Cas nods, having finished his cup of coffee. He grabs the TV remote and flicks through the channels as Dean had earlier. "Interesting choice for a bedtime story."

"Sure is," says Dean, giving Cas a little bow. "I still have that copy to this day. It actually used to be Mom's, but I stole it from her bookshelf one night. I, uh, never got to give it back." Cas frowns in understanding, and Dean shrugs. 

"I'm sure you've taken good care of it for her, Dean."

"You betcha."

Dean holds back a chuckle when Cas throws the TV remote onto the couch in exasperation. Seems like the two of them have the same idea about the crappy shows taking up space on the television. Standing up, Cas gestures for Dean to stay put as he jogs over to where the moving boxes are in the back of the flat, and Dean does as he's told. His arms occupied by a pile of photo albums, Cas sits back down beside Dean, spreading them out on the coffee table.

"This is what I wanted to show you before. I took these while I was studying, so of course, your brother features in many of these photographs," Cas explains, moving the empty coffee mugs onto the floor to make space for the photo albums. "I thought you'd like to see them in person."

"Jesus, Cas!" Dean exclaims, picking up one of the albums. Cas wasn't lying. Sam is in a few of these shots. Some of them were of him and Jess, even. "Why didn't you tell me, or anyone, about these sooner? Man, we could've shown these pictures at Sam's funeral weeks back and everything."

"I only found them last week, otherwise, I would've said something." Cas replies apologetically, his legs kicked up onto the couch as he pages through one of the albums. They must be a testament to how far he's come in the photography world, like a time capsule. Dean would have to see Cas' most recent shots to confirm that, but judging from the kind of man Cas has always been, there's no doubt he's talented at what he does.

"Whoa. Well, at least you found 'em." says Dean, perusing a photograph of Sam watching the sunset. Out of all of the pictures Dean has seen so far, this one is by far the most bittersweet to look at. His association of Sam's disappearance with sunsets has come to bite Dean in the ass because he does not approve of the familiar blue tinge staining his vision when he stares at that photograph for too long. So, Dean turns his sights to Cas and asks him a question.

"So, Cas. Why did you become a photography guy? A hot chick or something?" asks Dean, and it must be the third time in the span of two hours that Cas has rolled his eyes at Dean.

"Believe it or not, you aren’t the first to assume that," Cas responds, shrugging. Dean's putting his bet on Gabriel, Cas' trainwreck of an older brother, as being the one who asked that question first. "My parents were missionaries, as you could probably guess by my unusual name, and so we travelled a lot when I was younger. We were never in a city for more than a few months at a time until they decided to settle in Pontiac when I was nine. My father used to let me borrow his old camera, and I would take photos of every new city or town we'd visit, and over the years, it just… felt right for me to pursue photography as a full-time career." 

"Huh," Dean exhales, glancing at Cas. "That's kinda sweet, actually. I'm happy you got to do somethin' worth your while, you know? No doubt, it must remind you of the hay days."

"Always," says Cas, closing one album and replacing it with another. "It's too bad I doubted it at first and got into huge debt over a PhD in English Literature, despite how I was always destined to go into photography, isn't it?"

Dean laughs, reaching over to pat Cas on the shoulder. He can relate, stumbling on his journey to become a professional architect. Back in the day, Dean had always thought he'd be stuck in Lawrence or Sioux Falls, fixing cars like Bobby always has.

If it weren't for Sam and Charlie pressuring Dean into doing something for himself for once, Dean wouldn't have bothered attending college, let alone pursuing something like architecture. Once again, he has them to thank for pushing him to go for more.

"I mean, it's not a complete waste," says Dean, features stretching into a grin. "Everyone has to call you Dr. Novak, right? If you don't mind me sayin', it sounds pretty badass. Like a mad scientist, or a Walter White kinda guy."

"Walter who?” Dean laughs, placing a hand on his forehead. Take it that Cas hasn’t seen Breaking Bad. “Anyway, I wouldn't say it's 'badass', but I'm flattered you see me as such," says Cas, giving Dean a tip of his imaginary hat. Dean laughs seeing the usually stoic man do such a playful mannerism. "I am a published author, however. That has to count for... something?" Dean applauds him, leaning back into the couch.

"Really? Looks like I'll have to go down to the new city library when it's built and demand they supply your books, then." Dean raises his eyebrows, placing a hand on his chest. He's sure he catches the hint of red staining Cas' cheeks and Dean internally gloats in victory. He says nothing.

They settle for a moment, Cas setting up Netflix on the television while Dean goes through all of the photo albums at his own leisure. At Dean's persuasion, Cas puts on 'Tombstone', an old Western. Dean laughs at Cas' tired groan as soon as he sees a cowboy hat peek into the frame. So, maybe he's not into Westerns like Dean is. Maybe he's a sci-fi enthusiast like Charlie is? Into fantasy films? Period dramas? Action movies? Chick-flicks? 

"Hey, Dean?" Cas turns down the movie's volume to ask Dean a question. Dean freezes, not knowing what to expect. Their previous conversation at the car slips into Dean's mind, and he curls his fists in anticipation. Cas is truly unpredictable, a wild card. Every time he and Dean have crossed paths, things have never gone how Dean had expected them to. Dean can't remember a time when Cas wasn't constantly surprising him and Sam. Before today, the last time Dean and Cas caught up, it was no tea party, put it that way. He knows he and Charlie hadn't been the most accommodating hosts.

"Yeah, buddy?" Dean answers, meeting Cas' curious gaze.

"Why did you become an architect?" 

_'Oh.' _

"Uh, well, I guess I've always liked making things? Tinkering with stuff, really," Dean replies, shrugging. "When Sam and me were kids, I used to build him whole towns out of random shit I could find around the house. That was the first clue. I liked to make skyscrapers, and yes, before you ask, I did make the Empire State Building out of some cardboard boxes I found and pretended to be King Kong dropping like a fly. That’s what kids do. But hey, I thought I was gonna grow up to be a mechanic like Bobby and John are, y'know, the family business and all. I'm good with cars, and I love the challenge, but when Sam went off to Stanford to cop himself a law degree, well, it got me thinking."

"You wanted more." says Cas, and Dean nods in agreement. He gets it.

"Sure did. Car restoration has always been more of a hobby to me than something I'd want to do for a living. But I didn't wanna let either Bobby or John down, so I didn't tell anyone. Not even Sam."

Cas looks at Dean in surprise, beckoning him to keep talking with a quick nod of his head. Dean obliges, accompanied by the movie playing softly in the background, wrapping an arm around the back of the couch. It's a little chilly, but Dean doesn't bother saying so. Cas looks comfy where he is, his back leaning against one of the sofa's arms. 

"'Course, with a brother like Sammy, well, he found out eventually. Long story short, he cornered my ass and told me I better pursue what I really wanna do, and not what Dad or anyone else wanted me to do–or he'd drop out of Stanford. I wasn't gonna stand for that, so of course, I packed my bags, headed to college and voilà, eight years later, I'm an architect."

"Hmm. Sometimes, we all need that push, don't we?" says Cas. Running his fingertips across the leather of the sofa, Dean nods.

"Sammy was good at motivating people like that,” he pauses, feeling the now-familiar ache of tears in his throat, “Miss him." 

"I miss him too."

The conversation fades into a comfortable silence as Dean and Cas set their attention on the movie. They've missed the first half-an-hour, but Dean's seen it many times before, and Cas doesn't seem to mind so much. It's been nice getting to know Cas, Dean will admit. There's a lot more to him than meets the eye.

Cas’ photo albums are sprawled across the coffee table, their plastic pages glinting in the low light. Shadows dance across the floorboards as the sun sinks below the horizon, dark shapes rising and falling with the wind and the rain. It patters against the roof like tiny footsteps, and Dean hones in on their heavy tread. He shudders in unease, feeling like he’s being watched.

Enthralled by the movie, Cas doesn’t seem bothered by the eerie feeling surrounding them both. It’s most likely because he lives here, but even then, Dean wonders why he’s so chill about it. Are Cas’ neighbours nice people, even? What if he lives beside some real dodgy folk? His thoughts keep distracting him from the film, and Dean berates himself for it. 

It’s just a feeling, there’s no need to get all funny about it.

Cas must notice Dean’s unease, though, because he pauses the movie and turns to look at Dean, his gaze inspecting. Dean gulps, allowing himself to slump back against the couch in an effort to show he’s all good, but Cas seems unconvinced.

“Are you okay, Dean?” The dreaded question pops up, and Dean shrugs Cas off at first. He’s just cold, a little hungry, nothing too serious. Dean will just get himself some takeout on the way home or something. As for being cold, well, he could ask if they could put on the fire? There’s wood beside the fireplace already, it just needs to be made.

“Oh? Yeah, man. I’m good,” says Dean, standing up. “Is there any chance I could put on the fire? I’m… a little cold, that’s all.” At that, Cas also stands up from his seat, pulling the gentleman card once again. Yet, Dean won’t let Cas do everything for him, so he finds himself wandering into the kitchen with a mind to cook. Cooking will help Dean take his mind off things, as it always does. However, he does need permission, since this isn’t his house or his food in the pantry, but one look from Cas and he’s got the green light to get sizzling.

“What do you feel like?” Dean asks, looking over at Cas, who’s building the fire in the hearth. Dean stalks around the kitchen to get a feel for it, peering into Cas’ shelves and his refrigerator for potential ingredients. Something nice and simple, not too fancy. He spies a packet of spaghetti in the pantry and a lightbulb goes off in his head. Pasta. Always a favourite.

“How does pasta sound?” Dean shouts loud enough so Cas can hear him over the television. By the way Cas nods enthusiastically, Dean knows he’s found a soft spot within the man. He double-checks with Cas every time he pulls out an ingredient, just to make sure he’s allowed to use them in his cooking, and Cas has the gall to laugh at him when Dean asks if he can use a clove of garlic in the pasta. One clove. Dean’s not gonna risk it. He knows how protective some people are over their kitchens, Dean himself included. Yet, as always, Cas is laid-back about him waltzing around in his kitchen. 

In fact, the man saunters over to watch him from over the breakfast bar, a book in hand. Praying he doesn’t spill any sauce on his nice leather jacket, Dean waves hello, and Cas returns the friendly gesture. Dean scans the floor beneath him. The question has been swimming in his head ever since Cas pulled out the photo albums over at the couch.

_‘Why does this feel like a date?’ _

Is it because Dean made dinner for the both of them without a second thought, or because he felt sorry for Cas, the good-looking guy with a goddamn PhD and a huge talent for photography - who somehow doesn’t know how to cook for the life of him? Yeah, Dean’s just being a good friend. There’s no way he’s going to let Cas continue surviving on takeout every single night, not when Dean’s around with time to kill and memories to bury. Regardless of how intimate that sounds, he tries not to think anything more of it. It’s too soon, right?

“How do you do that?” Cas remarks as Dean chops up the onions and garlic with the precision of an honest-to-God chef. He’d spent weeks perfecting the technique when he was younger after being inspired by a cooking show he’d seen on late-night television. Got a few (more like several) nicks on his fingers to show for it, but Dean knows he looks professional and fucking hell, it’s so much faster. “I’m seriously impressed by your skill with the knife. I myself can bake reasonably well, thanks to my brother’s teaching, but for some reason, I’m terrible at cooking.”

“Yeah, well, first of all, it’s practice. Plus, I know how to position my hands so I don’t accidentally slice off a finger or two. Anyone can learn, man. Takes time, though,” Dean answers, pouring the chopped onion and garlic into the pan. “Plus, cooking’s a whole lot different than baking. You gotta feel it out when you’re cooking because more often than not you gotta adjust some part of your recipe to fit what you’re going for. Baking’s different because you’ve always got that recipe to fall back on. Your mistakes tend to be a little less permanent, I’ve found.”

“That makes sense. Huh. No wonder I’m useless at it. I never stray from the recipe–”

“–When you really should?” Dean finishes Cas’ sentence and Cas sighs in agreement. “Eh, you’ll get there. I’d be more than happy to show you the ropes sometime,” Dean offers, thinking about how he used to do the same with Sam. 

He stirs the herbs into the red sauce and takes a deep whiff of the cooking mince. It smells divine. “I taught Sam how to cook, and he was a disaster in the kitchen too at first. But, like I said, he learned in time, and soon enough he made the _best_ soups and stews, man. No kidding. I’m sure you’ll find your way around, with the right teacher, of course.”

“I’m sure Gabriel would be more than enthused to see me eat something for dinner that isn’t Chinese takeout.” Cas jokes and Dean gives him an appreciative chuckle, stirring away. So, Dean knows Cas better than he thought. Time to bring out the big guns, and by that, Dean’s already visualizing a weekly meal plan. Why? He has no idea. The noodles are soon done, and Dean pours them into the strainer with one arm while keeping an eye on the bubbling sauce. Cas returns to reading his book, a small smile etched on his features, his elbows leaning on the bench. He sure looks happy.

“Where are your plates?” Dean asks, taking the sauce off the heat and turning off the stove. Cas moves to get the plates for him, and Dean smiles in gratitude, giving himself and Cas an impossibly large serving of pasta each. They didn’t have lunch, and Dean didn’t get to finish making his pie back at home, so Dean is starved and he assumes Cas is too.

“Thank you, Dean, this is really something.” Cas says in gratitude as the two of them sit beside each other on the breakfast bar. All he can hear is the rain, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, and the dull sound of the television, intermingled with the awkward slurps and gulps of him and Cas working away on their huge plates of pasta. He’s proud of himself for creating a good, hearty feed, and Cas seems appreciative. It’s hard to try to make conversation while eating, though, so the flat goes silent again as they share dinner.

“Aw, thanks. Glad you like it.” Dean winks, Cas shaking his head. He likes how unaccustomed Cas is to Dean’s flirting, how every time Dean does so little as call him Casanova, Cas is burying his face in his hands, unable to look Dean in the eye for a few seconds. Leaning in Cas’ direction, Dean grins at him, raising his eyebrows, and Cas huffs, a tiny smile on his lips. There we go. If only Dean weren’t fighting the urge to hold his hand or press a kiss to Cas’ knuckles as those suave fuckers do in the movies. It’s baffling.

“Of course I like it, Dean. You were always a good cook, even in college.” Cas finishes first, much to Dean’s surprise, nearly toppling backwards when he stretches out and pats his stomach. Unlike Dean, Cas doesn’t have a gut to conceal and he finds himself a little jealous. This is the guy who eats takeout seven days a week? Maybe Dean needs to take up on Sam’s age-old advice and start going to the gym or something because Cas must do. 

“Well, I should probably get outta your hair, now. Regard the meal as thanks for takin’ me out today. I enjoyed it.” Dean mimics Cas’ movement and rolls his shoulders back. Not distracted.

“No problem, my friend. Thank you for asking to come with me in the first place, and I’m sorry for it turning sour before. It wasn’t my intention to bring you into things like that.” Cas apologizes, taking Dean’s dirty plate and fork along with his own. This dude and his chivalry. Dean has it in his right mind to try to outdo Cas with his gentlemanly habits. He has the feeling that no one has really extended that sort of kindness to Cas, and Dean always trusts his instinct. Maybe Dean should’ve gone with the holding-hands move, after all.

“Ah, don’t mention it. Shit happens,” Dean makes light of it, making his way to the front door. “Sorry about you getting fired, Cas. Goddamn sucks about your boss being an asshole like that. Hope your next boss is a good egg. That’s what you deserve, man.” Cas cracks a shy smile at that, and Dean waves goodbye to him as he steps out the door. Should he do something? Shake his hand? Pat on the back? A goodbye kiss? Dean’s struggling to pick what action to take, and it’s annoying him. This never happens, why now of all times?

“Oh, Dean. That’s very kind of you to say. Thank you, and have a good–”

Allowing himself to follow his instant impulse, Dean bends over to peck Cas on the cheek, laughing when Cas doesn’t finish his sentence. Dean just wanted to see what would happen if he pulled that angle on his adorable friend, that’s it. He’s satisfied with the results, patting Cas on the shoulder as usual before stepping away. 

“–Sweet dreams, Casanova.”

Dean drives home thinking about that little kiss. Nothing too big, right? He would’ve done the same if it were Cassie, or another girl or guy. It’s not like Dean went to makeout central with the blushing belle that is Cas, anyway. It wasn’t a date. He trudges up to bed, not even bothering to get out of his clothes, falling asleep pondering about everything but Cas. 

Spaghetti, Tombstone, and Cas’ photographs. That’s all Dean thinks about.


	5. painted escapades

_“People aren’t supposed to look back. I’m certainly not going to do it anymore.” - Kurt Vonnegut_

\--- 

Today is a blue day. 

Dean woke up thinking about Sam’s favourite song, he had listened to it over and over again on the drive home from Cas’ apartment the night before last. He’d sang out the lyrics with a screaming vengeance, pulling over to the side of the road and cutting off Baby’s engine. When everything seemed like it was going to be okay, Dean was hit with a tidal wave of loss. All because of that one fucking song. It didn’t impact him like it has every other time Dean mentioned about Sam earlier, no, it was this one damn song, this one caustic memory of Sam loving it, that broke down Dean’s resolve enough for him to have to stop the car.

He misses Sam. 

Before, the pain was somewhat bearable, muted, even. Dean could shove it aside and pretend he wasn’t hurting. It was like the spare moments before your body realizes it’s been injured, like the seconds of calm before the alarms go off in your head and the searing pain floods into your nerves like a hurricane of feeling. This is far worse.

Welcome to the indigo hours.

He couldn’t concentrate at work this morning, no matter how hard he tried to. His coworkers have given him the two-week grace period for mourning Sam, and during those long, gruelling days, he’d nearly flown off the handle at more than one irritating client. If Dean asks for leave now, he’ll be seen as a blubbering sob. That’s not the case. Dean doesn’t want to leave work when he’s in this ‘mood’. He likes having things to do, projects to work on. Something to occupy has wandering thoughts, to distract him from thinking about Sam too much. Anything that’s a semblance of normality, Dean has and will reach for. 

One thing that won’t stop pestering his thoughts that doesn’t have to do with Sam, is Cas’ harsh words about being sentimental during their discussion outside of Cas’ old studio. Why did they offend Dean so much? They were most likely a passing comment, but Dean can’t stop mulling over them like a dog licking an old wound. Frustrated, Dean crumples up the piece of paper he’s doodling on and throws it into the trash can beside his bulky desk.

He’s just not having it today. 

Before Dean can blow his gasket pondering over Cas’ words, he stands up and stalks out of his office, shrugging on his black blazer and deciding to go out for an early lunch. Maybe Charlie’s free and they could go together. She’s always good at knowing just what to say. Knocking on her office door, he waits outside for her to answer and soon enough, she does. 

“Hey there, Dean! How’s things?” She leans out of the doorway, peering up at him.

“Heya, Red. You, uh, free to go to lunch with me? Would love the company.” Dean asks, and Charlie nods, stepping out into the corridor in front of Dean. Thank God, she works here too. Dean would’ve quit years ago if that weren’t the case.

“Oh, sure! I was just finishing up a phone call anyway.” She accepts Dean’s offer, and they walk out of the building side by side. At least the weather isn’t too bad. Cloudy, a little nippy, but bearable. Charlie takes the lead, wanting to show Dean a new Japanese restaurant her and Gilda went to the weekend before, and Dean follows along, simply happy to be in the presence of an old friend. They go simple and order a large assortment of sushi, settling themselves into a corner table in the back. It’s nice and warm inside the restaurant, which Dean appreciates. The food when it arrives at their table looks good too.

“Thanks for coming out with me, Charlie. I, uh, to be honest with you, today’s been shitty.” says Dean, taking a pair of chopsticks in hand. Charlie gives him a sympathetic smile.

“Aw, Dean,” she says in a soft tone, placing a hand on his. “It’s okay. Yeah. Just take it as repayment for being there for me when Anna passed. I know it must be so hard without Sam.”

“Yeah.” says Dean, grabbing his first piece of sushi and tucking it into his mouth. He knows he’s not the most talkative, but Dean hopes his low tone clues her in enough. It seems to, because she nods in understanding, pausing to eat. 

“Actually. Dean?” Charlie stops eating to look at him in question.

“Yes?” Dean answers mid-chew, raising an eyebrow.

“So, uh… well, you see, I’ve had this idea in my head for a long time, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I was gonna invite you out for dinner or something to ask if you want in, but since we’re here now, I, uh, thought I could pitch it to you now?” Charlie asks, a grin threatening to crack through her serious expression.

“Oh? Sure, alright. Hit me with it, partner.”

“Okay. Here goes,” Charlie takes in a deep breath, and Dean straightens in anticipation. “I’m... thinking of starting my own architecture firm. An independent one. And… I was wondering if you would like to partner with me? I’ve already told Adler of my plans to break away from the company. We’ll be the owners of our own business! Bradbury & Winchester! What do you think? You interested? No pressure if you aren’t, though, I just thought I’d–”

“–I’m in.” Dean doesn’t have to think twice. He hates his job, and his boss is a dick. Out of all the opportunities Dean’s been given to fly the coop once and for all, this one feels right. As always, he trusts his gut instincts. Charlie has been a friend of Dean’s for over two decades now, he knows how she operates, how organized she is. They’ve lived together, even. It doesn’t mean breaking away from a company as large and reputable as Adler Architecture is going to be a piece of pie, however, but Dean’s sure he and Charlie are both well aware. He’s excited, giddy even, to have a part in a business he can call his own. 

If only Sam were alive. 

He would’ve been fucking thrilled to hear the news.

“Yes! Thank you, you won’t regret it, I promise!” Charlie exclaims, reaching over to pull Dean into a hug, squeezing his shoulders in her enthusiasm. Her joy is infectious, and Dean finds himself grinning back. This is great news. Brilliant news. This shitty day has been flipped into a fucking great one. Looking at his watch, Dean grimaces, and Charlie’s eyes widen in surprise as they both shake hands and quickly stuff the remaining sushi into their mouths.

Scrambling out of the restaurant, nearly dropping his wallet on the way to pay for the meal (he beat Charlie to it, sucker!), Dean jogs back to work, careful to stay in time with Charlie. There’s a little skip in her step as she waddles beside him, her stiletto heels clicking against the concrete of the sidewalk. 

_‘How the hell does she walk in those things all damn day?’_

Slipping back into their respective offices, Dean and Charlie share a fist-bump at her door, excited for what the future may bring. The rest of the workday flies by, Dean re-imagining how he’s gonna break the news to Adler that Dean’s jumping ship for good.

Dean’s almost tempted to say it’ll be accompanied with a respectful middle finger salute.

\---

That evening, Dean sits at his computer, scouring the Internet for resources on how to start his own architecture firm. His back and forth texts with Charlie reveal she’s been preparing for this for months, and Dean just so happened to fit the bill in terms of a business partner. He’s honoured to have been chosen by her, of course, but as this was her idea first, Dean lets her call the shots. He knows his stuff, sure, yet he also knows when to leave it to the better-informed folks. It just makes sense to.

There’s a bit of a sad moment when Dean goes to call Sam to bring him up to speed on the news, and Dean only remembers last minute. 

Not here.

He could call Jess, but judging from the time of day, she’s probably busy cooking dinner or something. Benny is working the night-shift tonight, so Dean won’t disturb his sleep, and Jody and Donna are most likely busy with their foster daughters, so that rules them out. Jo is posted at the Roadhouse tonight, so she’s out of the question, and Kevin won’t come home from afternoon classes for another hour. Dean could call Bobby because he knows the man would pick up regardless of whether he was on call or not, but Dean decides against it.

Selecting Cas’ number on his cellphone, Dean calls once, then twice. Cas picks up on the third ring, and Dean says a warm hello, scrolling through his computer with one hand while Cas greets him with equal warmth. 

“‘Sup, Cas. How are ya? Thought I’d check in,” says Dean, pleased with his multi-tasking abilities. “Just wanted to tell you that my friend Charlie and I are gonna start our own business! An architecture firm. Yeah. Uh, I’m obviously excited. A bit nervous, sure, but mostly cool. Just goddamn glad I get to break away from my old prick of a boss, to be honest. But, uh, that happened today. Woohoo, don’t ya think? ”

Cas’ enthused ‘Woohoo!’ spilling from the other side of the line has Dean biting back a laugh. What a fucking dork, holy hell. Grown men aren’t supposed to be cute like that, come on! 

“That’s great news, Dean! You’re experienced and charismatic, still young, bound to succeed. I don’t know much in the way of your profession, but I assume your reputation precedes you, my friend. Trust me, I’m very glad to hear that you’re doing well.” 

If there’s one thing about phone calls Dean is grateful for, it’s that the silky voice on the other side can’t see him blush. Dean’s no stranger to being laden with compliments, he knows he’s not hard to look at, yet with Cas, it feels different than it does when strangers or acquaintances try to flatter him. He doesn’t know why, exactly, but he can’t deny that it does.

“Wow, know how to butter up a fella, don’t ya? I’m thirty-five years old, don’t tell the ladies, but I appreciate the nice words, Cas. Glad to know you approve of me doin’ this. Actually, I, uh, yeah. I... uh, kinda feel like Sam’s proud of me too.”

“I believe he is, Dean. If he were here, you and I both know Sam would already be arranging some sort of informal celebration in the name of yours and Charlie’s success, I’d bet on it.”

Dean chuckles at that, remembering all the little get-togethers Sam would set up for him and their close circle. It was Sam that started their friend group's little tradition of meeting up at someone’s house for a shared dinner once a month, even. That’s part of the reason they continued with it after Sam went missing, to do it in his memory. Going further than that, if Dean were being completely honest with himself, he knows the whole reason he’s going through with this new career path is that he promised Sam he’d be okay. 

This is part of it.

This is for Sam.

He makes the vow within his head before sending Charlie a quick email with a few handy links to some websites containing info on how to set up an architecture firm from scratch. She probably already knows most of the stuff, but just in case, the tips are informative. 

“Hey, I was wondering, are you like… still curious about cooking? ‘Cause you’re more than welcome to come on over and poke around my kitchen with me sometime, learn how to fend for yourself. Well, if you want to, obviously. No worries if you’re busy or anything.” 

“Dean, I swear ever since you made that pasta for me, I’ve grown quite dissatisfied with takeout, and I blame you entirely. I _must_ learn how to cook, I’ve realised its importance, and you’re the best I know! So, yes, I’d love to take up on your kind offer.” says Cas, lamenting into the phone. “I’m currently out of work, as you and I both know, so when exactly would you like me to come over? Next week? The week after? What works for you, Dean?”

“Ah, let me think,” Dean answers, scratching his neck. He’s got plans with Benny and Jo this weekend, but the Saturday after that is the next monthly get-together at Kevin’s house. “Next week, I’m free? Yeah, as far as I know, I’m cool for Monday. Does that sound good to you?” 

“Of course, Dean. I look forward to it.” Cas replies. The conversation lulls slightly, yet Dean doesn’t want to hang up so soon. They haven’t talked since their accidental ‘dinner date’ of sorts, and for some weird reason, he’s missed Cas being around. Empty house, empty life, one can’t be too picky, right? That’s what Dean tells himself, anyway.

“So… dearest Casanova! How’s job-hunting? Found anything that you wanna do?” asks Dean. Cas pauses for a moment to think of an answer, and Dean raps his fingers against his computer desk, sparing a moment to peek the warm rays of sunlight peering through the window blinds. After Sam’s passing, Dean has never been able to look at a sunset the same way ever again. Who knew his mother’s words about painted sunsets were true?

“I don’t understand what you get out of that nickname but thank you for asking,” Cas replies, and Dean can _feel_ the unimpressed roll of Cas’ bright blue eyes all the way from here. “I’d say it’s going well so far. I’ve applied for a few already, and so now I wait. I hope to get a call in the next few days if all goes well.”

“That’s good, dude! And hey, if it’s any consolation, I’ll send a prayer upstairs for ya.”

“Is that so? I had no clue you are the praying type, Dean Winchester, but I appreciate it nonetheless.” Cas laughs, and Dean shakes his head, letting himself be amused. 

“Alright, well, I better let you go, compadre. Homework calls,” says Dean, hearing the hesitance in his tone. “Do keep me updated on how the job hunting goes, alright?”

“As you wish, Dean. I expect the same from you, by the way.” says Cas. Dean can hear the smile in his voice, and he tries his best not to dwell on that piece of information for too long.

“As you wish, Buttercup,” Dean teases, bidding Cas a fond farewell. “See ya, Cas.”

“Oh? See you, Dean.” 

_‘Right, add ‘The Princess Bride’ to the long-ass list of movies I have to make Cas watch. ’_

The line soon cuts and Dean places his phone down to use both hands on the keyboard, typing like a madman. Once he shoots off another email to a client, Dean stands up to stretch. He should make himself dinner in a bit, judging from how his stomach is complaining. Lunch at the restaurant was great, but it has been a few long hours since then.

Looking over to see that the sun is setting outside, Dean trods over to the windows, parting the blinds. He’s bathed in their golden glint, smiling at the sky. 

_‘I wonder who’s sunset it is tonight?’_

It’s with a sentimental heart that Dean grabs his phone from the desk and slips through the back door into Sam’s garden. There’s an old swinging chair placed in front of the plot, overlooking the horizon. He snaps a picture of the gorgeous crimson sunset before his eyes, and regrets having deleted the ‘sunsets’ album on his phone after Sam’s passing. Looks like Dean will have to start again. 

Sunset one. 

It’s peaceful out here. Quiet, like the soft chatter of the songbirds hidden in the trees above. Dean takes a seat on the swinging chair and sucks in a deep breath. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back, just resting under the fading light of the dusk and feeling the weight of his arms draped across the back of the seat. His mind halts to a stand-still, frozen in the moment. 

This is nice.

He hums a sweet tune, kicking back a bit so the chair gently rocks back and forth. It doesn’t squeak when it swings, making Dean sigh in relief at the prospect of not being disturbed. He thinks it would be nice to come out here more often, with a book, a lover, even. Maybe Cas would like it out here? 

Dean hasn’t thought about inviting anyone over for a while, but perhaps he should. It doesn’t have to be anything too serious just yet. Given the right person, he could go on a date. Nothing too formal, though. Something nice and casual. A coffee at the local café or something. A trip to the Roadhouse for the best burgers and fries in town. He’s wanting to step out, and in a way, it scares him. Sam is gone, it almost feels like Dean is betraying him by thinking these things. Why does Cas keep floating to the forefront of Dean’s thoughts? He knows Sam would want nothing more than for him to move forward in life, but isn’t this too soon? It’s hard for Dean to say, having no guidance. Yet, as Dean walks back inside the house when the sky falls dark, he remembers his last promise to a fading Sam, nodding to himself that Dean will keep it in honour of his brother.

_“I promise I’m gonna be alright for your sake, you hear me?”_

Dean will have to try to move on. He will. 

If not for himself, then for Sam.

—

Three weeks ago, Dean said a royal ‘fuck you’ to Zacariah Adler and left that company in the dust. Ever since, he has been forging his own path beside none other than Charlie Bradbury, his now-official business partner. 

It was satisfying to pack up all of his things, his drawings, his books, everything that had his name on it, from his old office and move them into his new place of work. He can say he’s free at last and not be lying through his teeth about it. The building he and Charlie have leased together is tiny and nothing impressive at that, but it’s homely. His office is half the size of his old one, and yet Dean doesn’t mind in the slightest because it’s _his_. It’s _their _architecture business-in-the-making, not anyone else’s.

It also means he can work on his own schedule.

Things are looking up. 

Yet, there’s this one thing that persists in bothering Dean. 

He’s tried to throw it aside, not think about it, but for some damn reason he can’t just pull a Taylor Swift and shake it off. The thoughts buzz around his head like a nuisance, ringing louder and louder in his ears until he has no choice but to listen in. 

_‘Being sentimental is a sign of one’s inability to move on from the past, don’t you think? Why keep physical reminders of a life no longer lived when you have the memories?’_

What did Cas _mean_? It’s driving Dean insane trying to figure it out.

Was he trying to throw a jab at Dean? Piss him off on purpose? Wasn’t he? Why did he say such things in the first place? Who hurt him like that? If he’s not careful, Dean will go insane.

_‘I just don’t get it, dammit!’_

He should ask Cas about it, yet it’s a touchy subject for the both of them and Dean doesn’t want to make things awkward. He’d rather keep it to himself. Every time he and Cas have hung out since, when they were cooking together and his cast-iron frying pan wasn’t the only thing that was hot and heavy, in every stupid phone call and impromptu visit, Dean has meant to bring it up, get it out in the open and over and done with, but he can’t find it within himself to talk about what’s bothering him. It’s not his style, and it… _fucking hell._

Dean is no Jess, he certainly doesn’t have the honesty of a saint, and he’s no Sam, either. He was into all of that therapist jazz, which was good for him. In saying so, Dean prefers the solo approach, but if it weren’t these damn intrusive thoughts pestering him so much, he’d handle it just fine like always. Maybe a movie and a few beers will do the trick? It usually does.

_‘Was Cas saying that I’m too sentimental? What does he know?’_

Dean scans around his house, pawing through his stuff, mind racing like a freight train. He’s kept most of these things because they’re attached to a memory, that is what he does! Why does he suddenly feel like he has to prove himself worthy of keeping his things?

He sees his sentimental touch everywhere, and he doesn’t like to be called out like this. It permeates in everything he owns, in the way the chairs around the dining table are arranged, in the way his mother’s books are neatly stacked on the nearby shelf, the way the family portraits are hung upon the walls. He even picks scents that remind him of his favourite memories, the fancy cologne he wears every day was a gift from Sam before Dean followed in his footsteps and left Lawrence to study when they were younger, the candles in the halls are vanilla-scented because they were his mother’s personal favourite. His favourite book was also Mary’s, it’s unbelievable. Can Dean ever do or keep something without attaching a memory to it? 

Is that what Cas was trying to tell him? 

God, Dean feels like an idiot, he feels embarrassed. No one’s there to jeer at him, but Dean can do that just fine on his own. It’s like he’s the ant being fried under a magnifying glass.

Why does it feel like he’s running ‘round in circles, never moving forward or backwards?

What doesn’t he understand?

Cas needs to explain himself before Dean throws a punch. He’s pissed but brooding. There’s the monthly get-together at Kevin’s house to look forward to tomorrow, why can’t Dean focus on that for a change? Why is that so hard to do all of a sudden?

Why can’t Dean stop focusing on Cas? It’s not like they’re a thing. 

Dean thought he was having an okay day, and he was until he was reminded of what he still hates to admit. How many times does he have to drill it into his brain that Sam is gone?

No matter how hard Dean tries to escape the memories, he’s forever haunted by the ghosts of his past. Call it a broken record, call it a rubber-band lifestyle, call it his Achilles’ heel, Dean claws at his feelings throwing him for a loop. It’s crippling, all-consuming, confusing.

Like a pinprick of light in a blanket of dysphoria, the sun peeks through the smoky clouds, caressing Dean’s face with an ethereal touch. How long will this last? Where can Dean find the answer? When will he be able to move on? 

Will he ever?

The house is deadly silent, save for the heavy rain pattering against the bay windows, sliding down the glass like tears. Dean strides through the halls, making a bee-line for Sam’s room. 

It all has to go. All of it.

A flash of neon yellow in the corner of his eye distracts him for a moment, stepping aside to peer at the unassuming post-it note stuck to the door of the fridge.

Sam’s.

In a fit of anger, Dean rips it off the fridge, crumpling the tiny piece of paper in his fist. 

_‘No! Sam’s!’_

Unraveling it in an instant, Dean bites back a wince. It’s an old note, and it’s so stupidly normal and uninteresting, he shouldn’t stare at it for as long as he does. Tears well up in his eyes the longer Dean stands there missing his brother, cursing life, cursing John, cursing God, Fate, Science, everything. It’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair that Dean, or anyone at all, can’t have ‘normal’ with Sammy ever again.

Needing to get out of here before it’s too much, Dean bolts for the back door nearby. It’s a point-by-point replay of the day he went to Bobby’s, as he throws on his leather jacket and sprints into the pouring rain outside. Running like a maniac, tripping over the rose brambles in Sam’s garden, Dean throws himself into the front seat of the Impala. Shoving the keys into the ignition and slamming his foot down on the accelerator, he hurtles down the empty road, making for the city centre, brushing away those stubborn tears with his jacket sleeve.

The turns he takes are muscle memory, the streets he drives down familiar in view. Bon Jovi plays softly on the car stereo and Dean just about loses it, clenching his jaw and switching the cassette tape for a new one without a second thought. He hates this, he hates how his feelings can wrench control from his own hands like this, but Dean’s powerless against them. 

It’s when he finds himself standing at the entrance of Tuesday Treats, the post-it note still balled in his hand, Dean blinks in bafflement.

It’s the place Sam mentioned in the note.

Maybe he’ll get something for Jess. After all, the note is a simple list of the baked treats that Jess’ pregnancy cravings demand. Remembering how Sam used to go out to appease his pregnant fiancée with various gifts, Dean allows himself to chuckle rather than cry. Why not?

The bell jingles as Dean steps inside the bakery and a familiar face greets him.

“Hey there, how can I help you?” The guy at the counter asks, leaning his elbows on it. He’d recognise that smug face anywhere, the small man’s eyebrows raised in question.

“Uh, I’d like these, thanks.” says Dean, passing the suspiciously familiar man the scrawled note with a heavy heart. “Wait, can you read them? My bad.” Dean moves to apologise but the baker’s eyes widen, gawking between him and the old scrunched piece of paper. 

“You’re Sam’s older brother? Wow. I knew I recognised you from somewhere.” With a curt nod, Dean shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “God, my own little brother used to talk about you all the time. Nearly drove me into the looney bin, I tell ya.” Dean squints at the bakery guy, trying to piece the evidence together. People’s names evade Dean, not the faces.

“And who’s your little brother?” Dean asks in a nonchalant tone, squinting in thought.

“You and Sam used to call him Sherlock Holmes, if I recall correctly,” The guy-in-question chuckles, filling the paper bag with an assortment of pretty pastries. “He had the biggest crush on you for years! Literal years, that sap.” 

A lightbulb goes off in Dean’s brain. Gabriel. Castiel’s elder brother, and the party-going drifter who’d dragged Cas and Sam into the most compromising situations with him.

“What? Gabe, you’re kidding, right?” Dean exclaims, hoping he hasn’t made an awkward mistake and called the dude by the wrong name.

“Huh! Trust you to remember my name, Mr. Winchester. That makes me feel quite special. But no, I am not kidding,” Gabriel winks, passing over the bag with a smirk. The passing comment sure doesn’t feel like one anymore. Praying he’s not blushing redder than a firetruck in front of freakin’ Gabriel of all people, Dean straightens. “Wait. You sure had fun at Cassie’s apartment last time we met, didn’t you? He told me all the gruesome details, you know. To be frank, I was kind of impressed. Hope he didn’t miss his chance.” 

“His chance to do what?” Dean furrows his brows, rolling his eyes. Of course, the first thing Gabriel mentions has to do with their college lives. Has a decade really passed since then, with the number of times he and others seem to refer back to those days? “Hell, if Cas calls talking into the great white telephone at 3 am with a raging hangover and waking up half-naked on the cold floor of your brother’s best friend’s bedroom fun, then kudos to him. We were young and stupid and drunk off our asses. To be honest, I don’t remember much else, man.”

“...Oh,” Gabriel steps back, fiddling with the cash register. There’s a weird tone in his voice that Dean can’t pinpoint. Almost like he’s… disappointed or something. “That’s… that’s a shame. Well, it was good to see you, anyway! Make sure to pop in and say hello to an old buddy when you can? You know I make a gorgeous pie.”

Dean pays for the order in cash, handing it over with a polite nod and a small smile.

“You bet. See you around?”

“Yep. Here is where I’ll be! Enjoy your treats, Dean-o.” Gabriel bows, passing Dean the paper bag full of baked treats. To think Dean might have a thing for Gabriel’s baby brother. Or that Gabriel’s baby brother apparently has a thing for Dean.

Driving over to Jess’ apartment to drop off the stuff, Dean clears his throat. That was years ago, anyway. Has Cas been talking about him to Gabriel as of recent? Maybe so. In theory, it could explain away some of the tense situations he and Cas have found themselves in lately, dancing between the lines of friendship and one might say, intimate companionship. God, their relationship is kinda weird, now that he thinks of it. Not that Dean, or Cas by the looks of things, have minded so much.

Riot barks his greeting as Jess opens the door for Dean, cocking her head to the side in a head-tilt vaguely reminiscent of Cas’ signature expression. 

_‘Fuck, stop thinking about Cas.’_

“Hey, Jess. I got you, uh, some stuff from the bakery. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Aw, thank you, Dean.” Jess smiles, a sad look in her gaze. Her eyes flicker down to the yellow square of paper, Sam’s crumpled post-it note, stuck on the bag (Gabriel must’ve put it there), and she pulls Dean into a tight hug. She knows why Dean’s here. “The baby will appreciate it, for sure.”

She invites him inside, and Dean takes his sodden jacket, hanging it up on the coat rack.

“They’re from Gabriel’s bakery, too? I still can’t believe that _he _was the one who introduced me to Sam at the nightclub in our sophomore year at Stanford,” Jess huffs fondly, placing the paper bag on the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “History was made that day, you could say.”

Dean squints, stifling a surprised laugh. 

“Why the hell did Sam never tell me that? You two nerds met at a goddamn nightclub?” 

Jess gives him an amused huff, nodding.

“Yeah, thank Gabe and his ‘amazing’ matchmaking skills, huh? I mean, he introduced you and Cas at the club, didn’t he? You guys were pretty cosy together if I remember right.”

_‘What does she mean?’_

“Wait, what? What did we do?” Dean gestures, searching for an answer to the million-dollar-question. As he said before, they were wasted, sure, but Dean swears they kept their hands off each other. He remembers falling asleep beside Cas, and that’s all.

Jess shakes her head, staring into the distance, “You should’ve asked Cas when you had the chance, Dean.” she mutters, drumming her fingers against the wood of the coffee table. Dean’s college days were a blur, he’d hooked up with countless men and women during those years, and he doesn’t remember doing anything of the sort she’s implying with Cas.

“Right.” says Dean, gulping, desperate to change the topic, lest he brings forth his and Cas’ current re-acquaintance, “And how're things? Everything good with the baby and all?”

“Well, nothing’s new, Dean. I’m fucking angry, I’m sad, I want answers– God, I don’t know if I’m gonna be okay. I wanna be for the baby, but… I just don’t know if I can do this alone.”

“Hey, you’re not alone, Jess,” Dean quietens, shuffling to sit beside her. He wraps an arm around her shoulder, looking her in the eyes. He’s serious about what he’s going to say, and Dean needs her to know that. “You’ve got me, and you’ve got your friends. There are so many people rooting for you, you have no damn clue! Besides, Charlie, and Jo, and Donna and Jody are always on my ass about you, and so are the boys. We’re in this as a team. Sammy might not be here in the flesh, but I know he’s watching over you. And he’s proud.”

The sudden onset of tears on Jess’ part have Dean patting her arm in comfort, passing over the tissue box without a word. She sobs into the crook of his shoulder, head tucked under his ear, and Dean just sits there, letting her cry. 

“I miss him, Dean. I miss him,” says Jess, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I… I can’t stop missing him.”

If anyone knows what that feels like, Dean does. He doesn’t know how long he sits there for, consoling his sister (Jess might as well be), but by the time he stands up to drive home, the tears have dried and Jess is picking at a cinnamon bun in silence.

“Don’t hesitate to call me, alright? Family sticks together,” says Dean, giving her a kiss on the cheek. The thankful smile on her features is all the repayment he needs. It’s only baking, nothing much. This is what Sam would want too, or at least that’s what Dean would want if he’d left the love of his life with their kid on the way. “Hang in there, honey.”

“You as well, Dean.” Jess waves goodbye from her couch, clutching the paper bag. “And hey, I heard from Charlie that you’re seeing someone. I hope you’re introducing me to the lucky fella soon because hey, they could be baby’s future uncle! It’s important!”

Dean laughs in surprise, scratching his neck. Word sure gets around fast in their clan.

“We’ll see!” He salutes her with a toothy grin, and shuts the front door behind him.

Maybe Dean should get a move on. Make a move. Is that what Sam would want for him too?

Cas has never pushed him away when Dean got snippy about his grief, or if the sentimentality fiasco threatens to show itself in conversation. He calls weekly, like he’s some sort of 90’s reject, and he makes Dean laugh with his stupid, dry humour and book-worthy puns. Cas still can’t cook for shit, but the one time he did try to make soup without supervision because Dean was all soppy after finding Sam’s memory box in the attic, Cas’ heart was in the right place. Even if the end result was what the idea of ‘burnt water’ would taste like, it was everything for Dean not to have grabbed Cas by the tie and kissed him senseless in sincere gratitude. It’s almost pathetic, really, the shock of warmth that reverberates within his chest whenever Cas is around, whenever Dean hears his gruff voice and pretends it doesn’t affect him in some dirty way.

It’s hard to explain.

There’s this lingering sense of guilt within his heart that follows every one of those sunny thoughts as if Dean shouldn’t be allowing himself to move on like this. Cas is Cas, he isn’t going anywhere, but something in Dean tells him to latch on and not let go.

What if Cas leaves him too? What would Dean do then?

Sam’s birthday is coming up, perhaps Dean could bring Cas along for the big reveal to everyone that Dean Winchester is officially off the market.

Well, if all goes to plan.


	6. painted confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before you read this chapter and the next, I just thought I’d bring the obvious to attention before one of you beats me to it - yes, these last two chapters are rushed. I lost all of my progress when the internet cut off completely (someone forgot to pay the wifi bill), and much to my mistake, none of my newest changes saved. So learn from my dumbass decisions, and PLEASE SAVE YOUR WORK. OFTEN. HAVE BACKUPS. SEVERAL. OH MY GOD. 
> 
> anyway! enjoy! :)

|6|

_“No art is possible without a dance with death.” - Kurt Vonnegut_

\---

Checking himself out in the floor-length mirror one last time, Dean straightens his shirt collar and smooths his hair, clapping his hands together before hurrying out of his house and jumping into his car. Late to a date, early to the grave, as Bobby used to say.

He’s hanging out with Cas today.

Could Dean call it a date? A blind date, kinda?

It’s meant to be nothing but a literal walk in the park (Cas’ grand idea), and yet Dean’s sweating from head to toe. They’re not dating, but they’re not just friends, as if they’d ever quite defined what they are. Doesn’t mean Dean feels any less nervous, however.

When he hops out of Baby after driving down to the city gardens, Dean takes a moment to gauge his surroundings. The sweet smell of flowers in bloom welcomes him as he ambles through the gate and down the main path, where Cas should be waiting for Dean nearby. As promised, he spots Castiel standing underneath the brush of a blooming cherry blossom tree, dressed in a simple button-down and blue jeans. It’s a different look, but a good one.

Surrounded by cascading blossom petals and a soft springtime breeze, the scene is eerily romantic, made all the more so by the subtle way Cas sends Dean a small, shy upturning of the lips at Dean’s eventual approach.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says in warm greeting, gesturing to the trees. “Aren’t they beautiful? The cherry blossoms are a personal favourite of mine.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a green thumb too? Besides having a PhD and being a fantastic photographer? Dude, I swear you only do these things to one-up everybody, I really do,” Dean laughs, patting Cas on the back with a grin. He raises his eyebrows, strolling beside him, comforted by the soft colours surrounding them both. “So, why do ya like the flowers so much? Educate me, if you must.”

By the way Cas is entranced by the surrounding greenery, Dean prepares to sit in on a long-winded lecture on the importance of plant life. Or bees, for that matter. Cas has a thing for the fuzzy little guys, and it’s sort of endearing.

“Well, flowers have some sort of deeper meaning to me, I guess. It’s interesting. They’re like a tangible reminder of how life is so short, but breath-taking,” says Castiel, gazing up at the cherry blossom boughs with such a severe intensity, Dean wishes he were the one with the camera-skills. “Because when you think of it, Dean, no matter how harsh the winter has been, the blossoms bloom in the spring. Every year, without fail. It’s a lovely metaphor, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I’ll be the first to admit the two didn’t cross my mind as being connected until you brought that up, so thanks,” Dean can’t help but think of himself in that metaphor, his so called winter being the ugly, sobering grief hidden in his being. Will Dean carry on with his life like this? Or will he sit in his house all alone, forever wasting away in his loss? “In a way, it’s… it’s the same with seeing the sunset. I mean, the day is ending and you’re sad about it, yeah, but that sunset is so damn gorgeous, you can’t help but say, ‘Hey, even though the day’s over now, seeing that was worth it’. So, like you said, life’s short, but sorta meaningful too.”

“I like that,” says Cas, stroking his chin. “Especially when you tie it in with that old belief… do you know the one? Where souls say their last goodbyes to the world through–“

“–A sunset?” Dean finishes for him, and Cas nods. “Uh huh. Mom told me all about it back in the day. Let’s just say, I, uh, know it… well.” Cas doesn’t interject, so Dean continues, “Say, do you believe in this sunset-slash-soul-send-off thing? Or is it just a story to you?” asks Dean, wondering how Cas will answer him. From the amount of time they’ve spent together, Cas seems to be the type who’d believe in things like God, angels, superstitions, magic, all of that flowery crap to which their second-hand hippie, Sam, used to give the benefit of the doubt. Yet, earlier when Cas told Dean he and God didn’t have the happiest of relationships, as much as you can have one with an absentee celestial entity, Dean was thrown off the loop once again.

“Good question,” says Cas, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Cas looks at him curiously, and Dean gestures for him to keep talking and walking. If Dean even attempted to explain how he met Sam’s ghost and saw his sunset, he and Cas would be here for days. “I mean, the sentiment of it all, the meaning it gives to the nuances of life and death… and… the sense of peace one must feel upon seeing the sunset of their lost loved one passing on? Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d… I’d think I’d want to believe in it. I like the idea. So, there’s your answer, Dean. Yes.”

“Can never turn off professor-mode, can ya?” Dean teases, nudging Cas’ arm. “Always sound so damn smart, like you’re trying to educate me on everything without even realizing.”

“What can I say, Dean? You’re a fast learner, and also, you did ask.” Cas adds, and Dean shakes his head, revelling in the cozy feeling settling in his chest. The path they’re strolling along begins to take an uphill route, and of course, Cas leers slightly ahead, grabbing onto Dean’s hand and pulling a little, edging Dean to step in time with him. The gesture startles Dean, but he doesn’t yank his hand back or even let go. Instead, he tries to ignore the way his face burns, and maybe interlinks their fingers somewhat. Just so he doesn’t trip and fall on his ass, because the man beside him is so distracting. The noonday sun filters through the blooming trees in a glossy glimmer, and how it reflects off Cas’ spring-sweet sapphire eyes has Dean over here forgetting how to think.

While trekking up the hill, it doesn’t leave much time for banter between their quickening breaths (which Dean doesn’t want to think about any further), and so Dean takes the time to admire the sights, and squeeze Cas’ hand a little tighter because the contact feels nice. Their hands slot into each other’s like two pieces of a puzzle, Cas’ pretty fingers entangled around Dean’s. Humming a happy tune, Cas gets the bright idea of striding closer and closer until their hips brush as they walk, and Dean can spot the pleased smile painted across Cas’ face. Smug bastard. Dean swears he’ll get him back somehow before the day ends.

_‘Two can play at that game.’_

They reach a wooden bench at the top of the hill overlooking the rest of the gardens, and Dean decides to take a seat and bask in the warm daylight. Sam always used to compare him to a cat for that reason, and he can see why. Following suit, Cas sits next to Dean, their hands remaining intertwined as Cas stretches and leans his head back, his chin tipped up towards the sun. Closing his eyes in content, Cas sighs, and Dean dares to rest his temple on Cas’ collarbone, shuffling over so their thighs touch. Cas flinches and Dean almost regrets his choices, but in a short moment, Cas is all relaxed again. Letting go of Dean’s hand, he wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders, and Dean internally curses. Fucker.

If Dean had only a single moment he could live in for the rest of his life, this would be it.

He hasn’t felt this kind of pure peace since Sam died, and it’s like a huge weight has been lifted from Dean’s shoulders. There’s an emotional warmth radiating from Cas too, as if he’s tapped into Dean’s velvety bliss. His heartbeat thumps strong and steady in Dean’s ear as they cozy up on the park bench, observing the world play out below.

“How are you, Dean?” Cas asks him quietly, breaking the gentle silence, and Dean gulps at the probing question, not knowing what to answer. An underlying tenderness coats Cas’ tone, and despite how his heart flip-flops like a fish out of water, Dean knows there’s no point in lying. He doesn’t lie, but tells Cas his regular run of the mill answer, that he’s doing okay.

“I’m good, Cas,” Dean replies, and Cas releases a soft huff, shaking his head. “What? I am.”

“Dean.”

“Ugh, alright, alright. Hold your horses. So... my life sucks serious ass sometimes, yet that’s expected. I miss Sammy all the damn time, which is old news, and co-running a business is stressful as hell,” Dean blurts out, blushing at how fast the words tumble out of his mouth. Funny how it’s easy to be honest around the man whom Dean swears is an angel incarnate. Peering at Cas’ long eyelashes fluttering up and down, Dean watches Cas watch him and marvels at how at home he feels. Temple resting atop Cas’ chest, Dean focuses on the rise and fall of Cas’ breathing, on the sweet spice of his cologne, on the whisper of air passing through his lips. “But… God, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud… you make me happy, Cas. Real happy.”

And the world stands still.

“...Oh.” Is all Cas can say, gazing down at Dean like he’s the frickin’ Holy Grail. For some reason, Dean isn’t scared of the overwhelming feeling welling up in his veins. It’s intangible, this creature, this craving, this connection. All he knows is that Cas is going to be the death of him, a fiery arrow aimed straight at the soul. Like a magnet, the holy hunger pushes and pulls, it twists and turns, coiling around them in a serpentine embrace. Looking up through his lashes, Dean smiles, glancing back and forth between Cas’ adoring eyes and his rosy lips. He’s fucking stunning to look at, to hear, to feel. In fact, he has to be the most gorgeous person Dean has ever seen, and yet Cas is here, with Dean, holding him to his heart.

Moving a hand to cup Dean’s cheek, the pad of Cas’ thumb sweeps across his skin in feather-light strokes, and Dean hums, relishing in the soft sensation. Every time Dean refocuses on Cas, his breath is knocked out of his lungs by the way Cas beams at him. Reaching up an arm, Dean tangles his fingers in the hair on the nape of Cas’ neck and gently pushes his face closer to Dean’s own. Cas grunts, staring at Dean’s mouth, his tongue wetting his teeth, and Dean purrs in admiration. Subtle motions all deliberate and wanting, Dean swears he’s entranced, locked in Cas’ line of vision. Their noses bump when Cas turns his head to the side, and they share a moony grin, breath hot on their skin.

“Are… we?” Dean murmurs, sitting up enough to rest his forehead flat against Cas’. It’s a loaded question within an unassuming disguise, and both of them know what it means. Things can never go back to the way they were. It’s quiet again as Cas pauses to form his long-awaited answer, and just this once is Dean willing to wait. Will they acknowledge this unspoken thing between them? He aches to kiss the man, yet Dean holds back. Both of Cas’ hands cradle Dean’s jaw, his fingers tucked behind Dean’s ears, and Dean shudders in anticipation.

“We are.” Cas whispers, leaning forward to attach his lips to Dean’s in a slow, sweet kiss. Dean shifts closer, climbing on top of Cas’ lap, caring less about their surroundings than he does Cas, any words he could say hitching in his throat as Cas slides his hands down Dean’s neck, coming to wrap them tight around Dean’s waist. Their mouths slot together, seeking heat, and Dean closes his eyes, kissing Cas like there’s all the time in the world.

It isn’t rushed or fervent with lust, yet it’s passionate, possessive, pliant. Cas kisses with the skill of a sinner, his lips pink and plush as they’ve always looked, and his tongue brushing against the seam of Dean’s lips, drawing a soft whine out of him.

This is everything.

Dean kisses him back, drunk on the overhanging ambience. His hands roam Cas’ thick hair, enjoying the reaction he garners from Cas after tugging on it, Cas lurching forward with a low growl. That visual is definitely going into the spank bank, holy hell. They make out for who knows how long on the bench, eventually pulling away when the sun is dipping low in the sky with a flirty laugh. It’s like they’re teenagers again, running away to indulge in a stolen moment.

Slipping off Cas’ lap, Dean stands up, holding out his arm for Cas pull himself up with. Taking his offer, Cas smiles, yanking himself onto his feet again and placing another chaste kiss on Dean’s tingling lips for good measure.

“Well, that was long overdue.” Castiel remarks, walking close beside Dean as they make their way back down the hill. The two of them will have to part ways soon, onto their separate lives. For a little while, at least. They’re together now, bound in their unspoken thing.

“You know what, I bumped into Gabe at the bakery a few weeks ago. He told me you used to have a crush on me.” Dean raises an eyebrow, smirking. Cas blushes and places another kiss to Dean’s cheek, admitting he did.

“Guilty as charged.” Cas scratches the back of his neck, smiling at Dean like a sap.

“So, you still think I’m hot?”

Cas buries his face in his hands, and Dean can’t help but coo at his adorable friend, playfully ruffling Cas’ hair. Cas bats him away, laughing.

“Well, it is a warm afternoon and that leather jacket of yours must be,” Cas rolls his eyes, making Dean laugh. “But, looking at you now, hmm… I’m thinking more along the lines of… _beautiful_… or… _alluring_, even. And yes, the word ‘beautiful’ is used too often for it to mean much, I know.”

“Aw, you sweet-talker! Tryin’ to go all James Dean on me, are ya?” Dean raises an eyebrow, cocking a hip to the side. Not once has Dean heard someone refer to him as ‘alluring’. Over the years, he’s been called pretty, hot, gorgeous, cute, all of the usual terms for people who pay more attention to his ass than his opinions. It’s nice to be seen, really seen.

“...Is it working?”

“Are you serious?” Dean laughs, startled by Cas’ response. “Cas, you’re killing me over here!”

“What did I do?” Cas squints, peering at Dean in silent question. Dean thinks he might topple over from laughter, but he just strides up to Cas and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t ever change.” Dean punches Cas’ shoulder as they walk through the front gate of the gardens, losing it at Cas’ starstruck expression. He looks precious. There’s a comfortable feeling simmering within him, and Dean likes it.

Standing outside of the Impala, Dean waves goodbye thinking about that kiss.

—-

Sloshing the coffee around in his disposable mug, Dean sits in front of the café window, people-watching. Charlie is huddled next to him, her laptop open and typing furiously, speaking up whenever she needs his opinion on something. It’s cozy in here, the hazy ambience calming to listen to, so Dean doesn’t complain.

It’s Sam’s birthday next week.

He would’ve been turning thirty-one.

Dean doesn’t know how he’s going to handle himself at the get-together they’re planning at Jo’s house, having to live through hours of pointless conversation, of people feeling sorry for him. When Sam went missing, a divide ripped between the people in Dean’s life. Some pulled back, some pulled closer, like Charlie, and some pulled away altogether. It hurt to see that play out before his very eyes, watching people Dean thought would stay beside him leaving him behind in his loss. Dean wonders how Charlie’s feeling these days, having to deal with losing not one, but two of the people she cared about so deeply.

“Hey, just thinking. How are ya feeling about Sam’s birthday get-together thing we’re doing next week? You don’t need me to like, pick up the slack for you or anything?” says Dean, taking a sip of his coffee. Charlie pauses in thought, shutting the lid of her laptop. Pushing her caramel latte across the bench towards her, Dean waits for her response.

“Anxious,” says Charlie, sending over a nervous smile. “It’s been three months since Sam’s funeral, four since his passing, but God, it’s like he’s still here. You know? I’ll be walking down the street sometimes and swear that I see him in front of me. Or I’ll like… I’ll hear a song and remember how much he liked it, or hated it, either way. Dean, it’s… weird.”

Shaking his head, Dean reaches over to place a firm hand on her shoulder. He relates.

“I know. Not weird, Red,” Dean reassures, looking her in the eyes. “You’re good.”

“And Dean, I can only imagine what’s like for you, having to deal with this. I’d… I’d hope being in charge of our own business helps with you having something to do, but I don’t know. Am I doing enough? Do you need more days off, do you need help with the house, groceries, anything you can think of? I feel like I haven’t been a good enough friend to you, Dean.” Charlie rambles, her eyes wide and inspecting. Dean sighs, patting her shoulder. Bless her heart, but Dean doesn’t want Charlie worrying after him when she’s already the busiest woman he knows. Cas helps him with dinner often, and Benny knows his way around Sam’s garden enough to teach Dean a few things. Even if Charlie lives across the road from Dean, he can’t take any more time from her than he already does.

“Charlie, relax. You haven’t done anything wrong, believe me.”

“You sure?”

“‘Course, m’lady.” Dean tips an imaginary hat her way, attempting to make light of the situation. She gives him a sad laugh, running her hands through her hair.

“Okay, but promise you’ll let me know if you need me, Dean,” Charlie grows serious, placing her hands on Dean’s forearms. “I know you, you’ll worry about everyone else and forget to look after yourself, like you always have! I _still _remember the day I had to drag your stubborn butt from fussing over Sam to the hospital over that broken leg you kept saying wasn’t broken!”

“Promise.” Dean nods, turning back to nurse his now-lukewarm coffee.

“You know, with me and Anna, I’ve had the time to think about things,” Charlie begins in-between sips of coffee. Eyebrows raised, she gestures in Dean’s direction, sighing. “It’s been so long since she died, you know? I’ve... spent... thirteen years missing her, Dean. _Thirteen years._ I can’t get any of that time back.”

“She meant a lot to you, Red,” says Dean. “Takes time to get over that sort of stuff. I mean, Sam’s been gone for four months now, and I still miss him every day. You know it yourself, that crap doesn’t get better or worse, it just… settles. That’s it.” He wonders how long it’ll take him to reach that point of acceptance like Charlie has.

“Trust me, I get you,” Charlie sympathises, placing her laptop into its bag. Looking at the clock across from where they’re sitting, Dean realises it’s time to head back home. Anna’s off to handle a client, but he’s done for the day. Cas is supposed to be coming over tonight for dinner, and Dean hasn’t even started preparing for it. “...What I was trying to say is… don’t do what I did. Don’t wait too long to move on with your life, and please, never let the pain take any more from you than it already has. The last thing I want to see is you missing so much because you won’t let yourself be happy. It hurts now, and you’re allowed, but take it from a girl who waited thirteen years to find love again when I say this. Remember to live, Dean.”

“Uh, remember to live?” Dean repeats, standing up from his seat as Charlie moves to throw her used cup in the nearby trash. She nods, features oddly solemn. Following her out the door with a wave to the café staff at the back, Dean watches Charlie give him a slow nod.

“Yes. Don’t forget it.”

Strutting down the street with her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, Charlie confirms the phrase for Dean before waving goodbye. Frowning to himself, Dean returns the gesture and wanders over to his car, sliding into the front seat without a sound.

‘What did she mean by that?’

Driving home, the sentence replays in his mind. He’s never seen Charlie be so serious aside from at Sam’s funeral. Her words took Dean by surprise, hitting him square in the gut. It reminds him of his previous outburst at Cas about being sentimental. More or less, the two had driven the same point home.

If you don’t move on, life will without you.

\---

Cas is sat all the way on the other side of the couch, and as of now, Dean isn’t too pleased with the seating arrangement. He pouts, patting the couch cushion beside him, looking at Cas. The guy doesn’t budge, but he does cock his head to the side in question, smiling at Dean.

Dinner’s in the oven, a roast chicken and much to Castiel’s delight, roast vegetables. Out in the kitchen, Cas had cut and washed the potatoes while Dean had made the stuffing, and the result was strangely domestic. Dean would ask Cas to pass over something, like a bag of flour from the pantry, and Cas would just grab it and hand it over to him without a moment’s hesitation. Cas would also ask Dean to fetch him some paper towels, and like clockwork, Dean would. It continues to baffle Dean, how well they mesh together. Things get done twice as fast and with half the effort, which is nice, really nice, after coming home from a long day of work.

“Do I smell or something?” Dean glances over at a wide-eyed Cas, who sags slightly once he notices Dean’s joking smirk. Cas sighs, kicking his socked feet up onto the sofa, and Dean leans forward, staring at him.

“If you’re talking about your cologne, then yes. Otherwise no, you don’t.” says Cas, his low tone all matter-of-fact. “Actually, it smells quite nice. Warm. Spicy. Not like a dollar-store body spray, which is a very welcome change from you.”

“Hey! Rude,” Dean scowls, throwing a pillow at Cas’ face. Of course, he catches it mid-throw because he’s Cas, but the point is still sent across. “This one I’m wearing, though? Was an early Christmas gift from Sam before he… left. Said I had shitty taste in perfume, then gave me this one and told me to never wear my old cologne again,” Dean chuckles, remembering how the day before he and Jess left on their little getaway to Sioux Falls, Sam marched into Dean’s bedroom and threw out all of the cheap scents he didn’t approve of - which were all of them. “I’ll, uh, keep wearing it in his memory.”

Cas, sensing the shift in Dean’s joking tone to something bordering that step too far from a healthy kind of upset, pokes back. “Well, to be honest, your brother was wise. The cologne you wore back in college was awful. I don’t even know how I liked you as much as I did when you constantly smelled like off-brand baby wipes,” Cas quirks an eyebrow and Dean cracks up at the bored tilt to his words. “Unfortunately, I’m not exaggerating. People used to come up to me and ask me if Sam’s brother was raising a child! A child, Dean! What was I supposed to say to that? Everyone’s too scared to tell Dean Winchester his cologne is bad because he’s the hottest bachelor around?”

Scratching his neck, Dean focuses real intently on the coffee table, opting to slide over to Cas’ side of the couch. Cas holds his arms out in expectation, a quiet chuckle reverberating in his throat, and Dean freezes.

“Pardon?”

“Dean.” Cas rolls his eyes, shifting so his back leans against the arm of the couch, legs spread. He doesn’t even have to explain further, because Dean knows what Cas is asking him to do. Blushing redder than school-girl, Dean moves to slot himself into Cas’ space, his back against Cas’ chest. With a contented sigh, Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s torso, and to top it all off, tucks his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. Before he can internally combust, Dean leans back into Cas’ embrace, kicking off his boots and allowing himself to relax as they wait for the chicken to finish cooking.

“Eh, so you’re all touchy-feely today,” Dean remarks, liking the contact. “You okay, Cas?”

“I am now,” Cas mumbles into Dean’s skin, making him shiver. Dean frowns, turning back a bit.

“Cas.”

“...Sam’s party tomorrow.”

“You don’t wanna go?” Dean asks, nudging his head against Cas’ temple. It’s understandable why Cas would be nervous to attend. He isn’t part of their little family circle yet, and Jess hasn’t even spoken to him in over a decade. Things like that are never not awkward.

“No, I want to meet everyone, but, you know,” Cas answers, his voice quiet. “I just… what if I’m not the one for you?”

“Cas, what the hell do you mean? You… like me, don’t you?” Dean furrows his brows, glancing behind him. Humming in confirmation, Cas loosens his grip. “Then, it’s good enough for me. And it’s good enough for them too.”

“–But, Dean…”

“Nope! We’re not starting that,” Dean cuts him off with an irritated huff. He can’t see himself going to that party with anyone _but _Cas. “I chose you, didn’t I? You chose me. Cas, it doesn’t get any more simple than that.”

“I guess you’re right, Dean,” Cas lets go of him entirely, and Dean scoots forward to give Cas room to move. “I did choose you, and I’m glad I did. It’s only… because I don’t want to come into your inner life too soon, Dean. Jess and I… we… I don’t know how she’ll react to seeing me after so long. It might be too much for her. This is a celebration centred around her late fiancé, and I… I am a living reminder of who you... lost,” Cas continues, rolling his jaw. He blinks, crossing his arms, and Dean stands up to place both hands on Cas’ shoulders as the man struggles to form his sentences. Dean says nothing, as it’s not often Cas speaks up about how he’s feeling, and simply listens, trying to understand. “It’s… as if… wherever I go, people see my face but they... don’t see _me_. They see Sam.”

His heart shatters at the words, and all of sudden Dean feels the need to hold Cas close to him and tell him it’s not true. Nothing is allowed to make Cas hurt like this, not on Dean’s watch.

_‘I see you.’_

“Hey,” Dean whispers, rubbing his hands up and down Cas’ arms. He tugs Cas close the moment a broken sob threatens to tug at Cas’ throat, softly stroking his back. “Hey, Cas,” Dean smiles at him, looking Cas in the eye.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas’ voice is barely above a whimper, his lower lip quivering.

“I see you.”

At that, Cas’ probing eyes light up with affection, and he kisses Dean like his life depends on it. Smiling at him, Dean kisses back, taking his time in showing Cas that, in fact, he’s the only one Dean sees.

Like a blazing sunset of his pain ending, Cas is the one who lights up his life.

\---

‘I think I’m gonna ask him out. For real this time.’

Dean had been thinking this ever since he and Cas slept together last night, still riding the high of being with the man Dean is sure is bound to become the love of his life if he plays this right. Gently prying Cas’ arms away from his torso, Dean slips out of bed, almost tripping over in shock when he sees the time on his alarm clock.

11am.

Fuck, they’ve overslept!

Dean moves to shake Cas awake, hesitating a bit when he sees Cas’ peaceful sleeping face, but he doesn’t wanna be late to Sam’s birthday party this afternoon. He’s meant to be there early, for fuck’s sake, and today, he’s decided to take Cas with him. Dean thinks he’s gonna give this unspoken thing between him and Cas a real shot.

Groaning in protest, Cas rolls onto his stomach, cursing under his breath. Dean chuckles at the grumpy man, tugging him from underneath the covers, and Cas more or less drags himself out of bed.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, we’re gonna be late to Sam’s birthday!” says Dean, pulling on a clean shirt and a nice pair of jeans. “You’re my plus one, remember?”

“...Yes, Dean. I… remember.” Cas’ morning voice rumbles like gravel, and Dean likes it. In other circumstances, he’d try to see how he could make that voice sound even more wrecked and sonorous, but now’s not the time. They’ve got a party to attend.

“Need to borrow a shirt or something? Or are ya gonna show up looking like a Constantine rip-off and I’ll have to play the grace card for you?” Dean teases, tying up his boots. Cas rolls his eyes, and Dean gets a nice eyeful of Cas’ bare ass as he pulls on his underwear. Dean whistles in shameless appreciation, and Cas snorts, but Dean knows he’s blushing.

“My eyes are up here, Dean.” Cas deadpans, and Dean laughs, leaning over to give Cas a peck on the lips because he can do that now. He throws Cas a clean shirt, a dark blue button-down, and playfully spanks him on the way past. Cas squeaks in surprise, and Dean glows in pride. He didn’t know a grown man could release a sound like that, yet to be fair, their relationship is rather new. “For God’s sa… get that smug look off your face, Winchester!”

“What look? I’m just admiring the view, tis all.” Dean winks, and Cas sighs at him, causing Dean to laugh as he musses his hair in the mirror and Cas gets dressed. In fact, he appears behind Dean after he’s put on his shoes and black slacks (his old ones), coming up to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist and placing a kiss on the shoulder. Dean bites his tongue, fighting the blush rising on his cheeks. “Oh, so now you’re being all sweet on me, huh?”

“Well, you look good, Dean. I like you in that shirt,” says Cas, one eyebrow raised. Dean chuckles, leaning back into Cas’ embrace for a moment. It feels nice. “Can I not be honest?”

“‘Course you can be honest. Just like I can say how I like that colour on you. Brings out your eyes real nice.” Dean internally punches the air in victory when Cas freezes in surprise. Even now, the compliments keep catching him off-guard, and Dean loves it.

He can’t wait to show him off at the memorial party today.

They rush downstairs together, hopping into Baby without second thought. Cas takes the time to order them a coffee from one of the nearby cafes before driving down to Jo’s house, where they’re celebrating. Passing Dean his coffee, Cas gives him a nod and they exit the car, ready to help Jo set up, and Dean swears he loves that man just a little more.

_Love?_ Why did he say that?

Dean chooses not to think on it, and wanders inside the front door, knowing Jo is expecting them. Cas hooks his elbow with Dean’s, understandably nervous. Cas does have every right to be there, though. He used to be Sam’s best friend back in their Stanford days, something that Dean has repeated over and over again to himself before letting go and telling Cas he liked him. He and Jess were close friends too, even if Cas suspects she won’t know what to say to him, but Dean has no doubt she’ll be over the moon to see Cas after so long.

Much to his surprise, they’re not the first ones there.

They’re fucking late to being early!

Nodding in Cas’ direction, Dean asks for the silent all-clear from his plus one and he gets it. Walking into the sunny backyard, Dean clears his throat.

“Hey, guys! I want you all to meet someone special to me.”

The reaction he gets is an interesting one, the faces of his closest friends curled all curious and wondering. Like a blushing bride walking down the aisle, Cas steps out beside him.

No one reacts.

Dean’s a little hurt by that, but assumes they’re just teasing him. Can’t expect his best friends not to have a little fun at his expense, especially in front of his plus one. He’s expecting Benny to march over and crush Cas in a bear hug as he does with all the newbies, or even Donna to beat him to it and wrap Cas’ up in her arms, welcoming him to the party. Yet, the longer they go without doing so much as looking at Cas, Dean grits his teeth. Charlie saunters up to him and Cas when she spots them, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Finally! So, tell us! Where is this dreamy mystery boy I’ve been dying to meet?” she says, her tone curious. Dean frowns, gesturing beside him as Cas waves a shy hello. She doesn’t acknowledge him, however, still glancing around as if she’s searching for something, and Dean’s thinking he’s not into this prank.

“What… do you mean?” Dean asks, and Cas glances around, squinting in confusion. “Cas is right here.” He says, once again placing an arm around Cas’ shoulder. Charlie stares straight at him, but frowns in confusion.

“But… you haven’t brought him out yet?”

“Yeah, where is he, Dean? Hiding in the cake or something?” asks Jo, sipping from a bottle of beer. Charlie whips around, looking everywhere but at Cas.

“I don’t see him, Dean!”

“Are you kidding me? Cas is right here, guys!” Dean shouts, a little offended. He hates the sad look on Cas’ face, rubbing his shoulder in a comforting manner. God, this is the worst introduction Dean has ever done. “Beside me!”

Charlie’s face goes apologetic, saying,

“Where? I don’t see him?” Dean’s decided he’s had enough with this rude shit, scowling at the lot of them, and Cas speaks up, trying to greet everyone in his usual polite manner.

“Hello everyone, I’m Castiel,” He begins, giving them another wave, “It’s... uh... a pleasure to be here. Thank you for letting me join you–”

There’s a shout at the other end of the backyard, and Jess pushes through the crowd, eyes wide. Everyone makes way for her, as she’s now heavily pregnant, and Dean and Cas grin in her direction. Finally, someone’s being nice! Yet, Jess doesn’t smile back.

She scowls. At Dean.

“–Cas? As in Castiel?” Her unimpressed glare burns into Dean’s soul. Her attention is focused on Dean for now, as Cas walks around, trying to make small talk with the others. Of course, no one gives him the time of day.

“Yeah, Castiel Novak, actually. You know, you used to flat with him and Sam?” Jess stiffens, telling Dean to shut up. Fists curled, she steps right into his personal space, seething with anger.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Dean! It’s my baby’s dead dad’s birthday today and you’re joking about Castiel’s death? Now, of all times?” She shouts at Dean, almost flying off the handle. Jody hangs back, keeping a close eye on her. “You know what? Get out!”

Dean’s jaw drops in a cocktail of shock, denial, confusion. What did Jess just say?

Castiel’s… _death_?

“Jess, what the fuck are you on about? He’s not dead? He’s right here!” Dean scrambles to explain before he’s dragged out of the party by Benny and Jody. There’s no sight of Castiel anywhere, and Dean kicks himself for losing sight of him. “Cas! Come on, man!”

“Dean, would you stop? Not today, please!” Jess begs, grabbing onto Dean’s arm. There are tears rolling down her face, clumps of running mascara staining under her cheeks. Her eyes bore into Dean’s, her gaze pleading. “Cas is long-dead, Dean! Has been since late December, and I should know because I fucking attended Castiel’s funeral at the beginning of this year!”

“No?” Dean has the gall to laugh, “That’s not true? Jess, I’ve been hanging out with Cas for months!” She gasps, her hand raising to slap him, but Cas sprints over, having found them.

_‘Thank God, he can tell her himself!’_

Stepping aside, Dean lets Cas push past him, and Benny and Jody observe in bewilderment. What the fuck is happening? Why today?

“What? I’m here, Jess! I’m not dead! I’m alive!” Cas rushes over, giving her a hug. Jess takes one look at Cas and screams, jolting away from him. Cas steps back, in shock, flinching are Dean’s supposedly reassuring pat on the shoulder. It’s a few quiet moments before the whole lot of them are rushing around the backyard in a confused frenzy, hovering over a panicking Jess, and Cas is stumbling backwards, looking at his hands, the whites of his eyes showing.

“_Dean, what have you done?!” _

_“What is wrong with you, Dean?”_

_“How could you do such a thing to Jess on Sam’s birthday?”_

_“That was the most asshole thing you have ever done, Dean! How dare you!”_

Everyone’s scolding him for having no empathy, and Dean doesn’t know what he’s meant to do. Cas is dead? Cas _can’t _be dead. It’s not possible! He’s about to bolt for the hills, dragging Cas along with him, when Jess screams, pointing at Cas, her stance wobbly with fear.

“You’re dead! You’re not the real Cas!” Cas moves to approach her again, trying to console her, but Jess won’t have it, hands coming up to shield herself.

“Jess, I’m–” Cas reaches forward, but she bats his arms away. It takes several more attempts of his part before he slumps in defeat, shoulders sagging.

“Now, I don’t know how Dean brought you back, but you leave me alone! You’re not the Cas I knew!”

“But, I am alive! Why are you doing this to me? It hurts!” Cas shouts. Jess seems to be the only one beside Dean who hears him. Charlie’s fainted, face-down on the grass, and Cas is trembling, no doubt searching for Dean. Hidden behind the back door, Dean watches the scene play out, his ears ringing with the jarring news.

“Dean! Come back!” Cas calls out for him, eyes wide like searchlights. Dean doesn’t know what to do, or think, or how to act. As he’d anticipated, Benny and Jody have him by the arms, pulling Dean outside with a promise to have him explain what the fuck just happened.

He can’t get to Cas.

“Dean, where are you?” Cas keeps calling, and Dean’s heart shatters that little more. He wants to hug him, tell him it’s okay, but at the same time, Dean is panicking, head woozy with shock. “Don’t leave me, Dean! I need you!”

Dean, needing to get out of here, makes a break for the Impala, leaping into the driver’s seat and speeding off before Jody or Benny have the chance to question him.

Dean is an asshole.

Cas appears beside him in the car, stoic and silent with his panic, and Dean nearly swerves into a telephone pole because of it. Dean’s hoping praying this is nothing more than a bad dream, and that he and Cas will wake up ready to attend Sam’s memorial birthday party when he wakes up. He hates the test-run, he hates how heartbroken Cas looks, he hates himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dead?!” Dean yells at him, his heart being shredded into pieces at the way Cas flinches at Dean’s furious tone. He’s angry, but it’s the broken kind, the kind that makes him want to punch Cas’ face in, sob like a woman in Hollywood, and then kiss him stupid in apology.

“Dean, I–”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Cas! You’re a fucking ghost! A spirit! You’re dead!” Cas slams his hands on Baby’s dashboard, and Dean has it in his mind to scold him for mistreating Baby. Cas curls his fists, rolling his eyes in frustration, jaw set and blue eyes ice-cold.

“I didn’t know I was dead until today! Okay! So, I’m afraid I’m just as surprised as you, Dean!” He shouts, and Dean winces, having never heard Cas speak above a low tone. “I don’t know what to tell you!” Dean paints on a straight face, staring at the road.

“Go away, Cas.”

“What, Dean–?” Cas goes silent, and Dean nearly breaks down right then and there. He needs to get away before he starts bawling in front of the man he loves. Dean had tried to move forward for Sam’s sake, but now he’s found himself cast in the starring role in a real-life tragedy. Why couldn’t he have fallen for anyone but Cas?

Why did the one man who made Dean feel like he had a shot at starting anew have to be a fucking ghost? He has to face the facts. Dean’s in love with the phantom of a dead man who didn’t even fucking know he was a dead man until now.

Where is the happy ending in that?

Cas can’t be who Dean wants him to be. Alive.

“I said. Go. Away.” Dean repeats, gritting his teeth.

With that, Cas nods, sparing Dean a quick glance.

Dean’s left alone in the car once again, and the tears dripping down his cheeks show no mercy. He gulps them back, racing home. He has no idea where Cas went.

All Dean knows is he’s the world’s biggest fool.


	7. painted sunsets

|7|

_“It is time for me to be dead for a little while - and then live again.” - Kurt Vonnegut_

\---

It feels weird to be walking in an area so familiar yet foreign at the same time.

Sioux Falls is a place that Dean hasn’t dared to visit since seeing Sam’s body, and for the second time, it’s at Bobby’s invitation. Standing outside of his childhood home, Dean doesn’t want to go a step further. It’s a den of memories, sharp and soft.

He’s just here to pick up Sam’s things. That’s it.

As soon as Dean’s got everything he needs, he’s going to hightail it out of that house for good. There’s no need for him to return here anymore.

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean steps through the front door, Bobby having walked in before him. John is nowhere to be found, and Dean sighs in relief. Just because he’s able to speak to the man without punching his face in does not mean that Dean wants to be in John’s presence any more than he has to. That man has caused him a lot of pain, and with the recent discovery of Cas’ death, Dean has every right to be upset.

He’s in love with a fucking ghost, that’s what!

It’s in a fleeting moment of weakness that Dean wishes Cas were here with him, holding his hand, whispering sweet nothings into Dean’s ears like he had moments before they found out Cas was a ghost. Dean shouldn’t have driven him away. Why did he push Cas away?

He may be dead, but that doesn’t mean Cas can’t feel anything. Dean doesn’t have to think twice to know that Cas wasn’t lying when he said he loved Dean. Those sorts of things you can’t fake. Not for that long. Cas was an honest man, why would he lie about something as huge as being in love? Why did Dean not say it back to him?

Why did he tell Cas to never come back?

That has to be the biggest lie Dean has told in a long while.

If he hadn’t driven Cas away, Dean could’ve taken him up here, would’ve had his support. He wouldn’t be on the verge of tears just looking at the family portraits upon the walls of his childhood home.

‘I miss you, Cas.’

Dean can hear Bobby’s gruff voice from within the dining room, tone melodic with curiosity. Walking past, Dean decides to ignore his own intrigue and get straight to packing up Sam’s things. Jess had told him that she would’ve done it if she’d remembered, bless her heart, but Dean knows this is something that he needs to deal with. Not her.

He steps into Sam’s room, peeking the box on his old bed. There’s a stinging sensation in Dean’s chest as he realizes the room hasn’t been touched since Sam was a kid. He concludes that Sam was lost in the nostalgia of it all himself.

“John, what the hell are you talking about? Who is this…” Bobby’s voice cuts into the otherwise deathly silent household, and Dean pauses to listen, his curiosity winning out.

John is here.

“Castiel? Who is Castiel?”

Dean drops the box.

Cas?

He sprints into the next room, demanding to know what the fuck is going on, and in that moment, Dean sees him. He sees Cas, looming over John.

“...Cas?” Dean chokes, cringing at the tightness of his voice. Cas’ eyes snap upward and just like that, he is enveloping Dean in a bone-crushing hug, pressing a long kiss to his lips.

Dean stalls in shock before wrapping his arms around Cas, nudging his head against Cas’ temple. It’s not until now that Dean realizes the sheer extent of how much he fucking missed his Cas. Squeezing him just that bit tighter, Dean returns the chaste kiss, biting back any semblance of tears. John is here. They’re not alone.

“Dean?” asks Bobby, squinting in pure confusion. John’s eyes are wide in surprise, staring straight at Dean and Cas.

John can see what Dean’s doing.

Bobby doesn’t see a thing.

“You?” John gasps, staggering backwards. His head starts shaking, and his eyes speak volumes of a man in full-blown panic mode. Dean presses another kiss on Cas’ forehead before letting go of him, yet he takes Cas’ hand in his own, unwilling to be apart from him just yet. Bobby stands up, gesturing between John and Dean, asking them what the hell is going on, yet Dean knows. Cas knows. John knows.

“Ironic, isn’t it? You evil bastard!” Dean sneers, Cas standing in stoic silence beside him. “You can’t escape it, John. You did this. The blood is on your hands.”

“I had!” says John, and Dean has to force back every cell in his body telling him to give the man a piece of his mind. In a way, Dean is. “That’s the thing! I had!”

“What the hell is going on? Who are you talking about?”

“He killed Sam,” says Dean, voice cold with accusation. “and he killed Castiel.”

By the way Bobby whips over to stare at John in shock, Dean knows he’s done his job.

“You killed your own goddamn son? What the hell is wrong with you?!” Bobby yells at John, storming up to him and grabbing onto his collar. “I am ashamed to know your name, you sick cowardly, bastard!”

“Bobby, you-”

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, you son of a bitch! You’re less of a man than I thought!”

Dean nods internally, allowing the scene to unfold in front of his eyes. His fingers intertwine with Cas’, and he smiles at the way Cas strokes his thumb across the back of Dean’s palm.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asks, turning his head to look him in the eye.

“Now that I’m with you, I am.” Cas responds, and Dean nods in understanding.

“I know exactly how that feels.” Dean says softly, sighing in distress. Bobby’s still shouting at John in the background, but all Dean can focus on is the warm ghost pressed against his side. He doesn’t have much time left with Cas before the inevitable happens.

“I’ve been… haunting him, Dean,” says Cas, his voice quiet. In an instant, Dean understands, leaning his head towards Cas’ in acknowledgment of the fact. “I’m certain I can make him own up to his crimes, if I haven’t already.”

“We should show Bobby… your…” Dean begins, and Cas nods, neither of them having to finish the sentence to know that Dean means Cas’ physical body. His corpse.

“Bobby?” Dean asks, and at first, Bobby doesn’t hear him through his anger at John. “Bobby!”

That gets his attention.

“W- I need to show you something.” says Dean, and suddenly John is glaring death at Dean, lips curled into an angry snarl.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Or what? You’ll kill me too?” Dean snarks, and John freezes at his words. Got him. Bobby squints at John, yet decides against following Dean.

“I know, son. But I can’t leave John here without knowing his ass is rotting in prison.” says Bobby, and Dean understands. Cas slips out of Dean’s grasp, walking over to John. The man’s eyes blow wide like saucers, his hands shake at Cas’ approach.

“It doesn’t matter where you run or where you hide, John. I will be there. Wherever you go, I will never let you forget what you have done to me and to Sam. You hear me? I will never let you get away with it!” Cas shouts at him, leaning over John in mocking pity. “I’m going to lead Dean, the man I love, to my body. He will see just what you did to me - and if you dare try to stop him, or Bobby, from seeing the truth, I will make sure your life is hell on Earth. Don’t move. Don’t you dare move from this spot, or lest I remind you. Hell. On. Earth.” John isn’t in his right mind to say a word, his mouth gone dry with shock. Dean stands beside Bobby near the back-door, silent with surprise.

“Something tells me he’s not going to be making a run for it anytime soon.” Bobby whispers, and Dean nods.

“Not with that threat looming over his head, he ain’t.”

Cas stalks back to Dean and Bobby, and John takes a seat on the nearby chair. He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t speak to Dean or Bobby. He looks guilty, eyes cast downward onto the floor. With a nod, Cas beckons Dean to follow him, and Bobby walks behind Dean.

They make their way into the woods, and Dean’s heart sinks.

This is where it all began.

This is where Cas was murdered, where he woke up as a ghost.

This is where Sam caught his father burying a body and met his end.

When Dean and Bobby see the conspicuous mound of dirt in front of them, it all comes together.

Cas is dead. Really dead.

Dean feels like he’s going to be sick.

\---

That evening, Dean sits on the backyard porch of his family home, staring up at the sky. He’d seen a lot today. John hasn’t dared to move much from his spot in the sitting room out back, and Bobby’s with him, keeping an eye out.

Cas appears beside him, taking a seat. Cas’ body is about to be cremated, and Dean can’t bring it within himself to look Cas in the eye. Dean doesn’t want him to pass on.

He wants Cas to stay.

“You know this is what I want, Dean,” Cas says softly, as if he were reading Dean’s mind like an open book. “I want to be at peace. I want you to be at peace.”

“But, Cas, I–”

“–I know,” He places a hand on Dean’s cheek, lips upturned into a sad smile. “I know you do.”

This isn’t how Dean wanted it to be at all. First Sam, and now Cas? He can’t take it. Gulping back his pain, Dean lunges forward, arms wrapping around Cas shoulders like a vice.

“You… do you… do you have to–goddammit, Cas!” Dean curses, tucking his head over Cas’ shoulder, blinking slowly. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m doing this because I love you, Dean. Only one of us is dead. Don’t stop... living... because of me.” says Cas, his fingers trailing through Dean’s hair as he speaks.

“But what am I supposed to do? I’ve lost Mom, I’ve lost Sam, why do I have to lose you too?”

“You’re not losing me, Dean,” says Cas, his breath soft against Dean’s neck. “Okay? I’m just leaving you for awhile. Like your mother, and Sam. That doesn’t mean I am never coming back.”

“Awhile, my ass!” Dean exclaims, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re passing on, Cas! That’s literally what’s happening! Nothing’s nice or pretty about it!”

Cas sighs and Dean can feel it against his chest. His jaw sets in denial, fingers curled around Cas like it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.

Dean’s the last thing Cas will see.

“You’re right,”says Cas, quiet against Dean’s shoulder. “I’m... terrified, you know. I’m scared to pass on. I have no idea what to expect, and I know I’m a ghost, but I despise it. I feel very much alive when I’m with you, Dean. You make me forget that I’m dead.”

“Cas… please.” Dean shakes his head, pulling back to look Cas in the eyes. He looks like an angel, bathed in the whitewashed glow of the incoming sunset. “Don’t… don’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?” asks Cas, his gaze fond. “You fooled me for how many months?” He laughs, and Dean tries to smile for Cas’ sake. It’s hard to take in.

They sit there, entwined in each other’s embrace, neither of them willing to look away. Cas brings a hand up to cup Dean’s cheek, brushing it gently with the pad of his thumb, and his jaw clenches as it dissolves into twinkling particles reminiscent of stardust, floating into the midsummer air. Cas doesn’t take his eyes off Dean, however, his reassuring smile cracking ever so little when Dean’s lower lip begins to tremble. Cas’ eyes, deep burn blue eyes, fall glossy. He doesn’t blink, but he glances up to the setting sun every now and then, refusing to change his position.

Dean closes his eyes for a second, tears prickling at their sides as his heart is overwhelmed with emotion, but he’s scared to miss Cas, and they fly open again before a second passes.

Cas’ legs and arms have vanished.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Cas tries to comfort him, his breaths ragged with emotion. “Look at me.”

Dean does as he’s told, trying to hold it together. A tear slips from Cas’ eyes as he smiles at Dean with a tenderness so raw, it takes everything not to let his resolve slip and sob until there’s nothing left.

Cas doesn’t deserve that.

“What am I supposed to do without you, Cas? I don’t know what to do, I’m–”

“Dean.”

“What, Cas? I’m trying here, dammit!”

“I was thinking…” he begins, and Dean’s voice wobbles, refusing to tear his gaze away from Cas’ gaze, even he spies the tendrils of death crawling up Cas’ torso. He’s going. He’s fading.

“...Yeah?”

“I… I think you would’ve been the love of my life, Dean.”

“...Cas. You bastard! What did I fucking tell you about saying things like that?” He feels wetness on his cheeks and knows he’s failed to keep it all together. He’s too focused on Cas to be embarrassed, but he’s pissed at how those words have made him cry. It’s not fair. It’s never goddamn fair. “You’re fucking leaving me, you son-of-a-bitch! I’m not happy!”

Cas nods, pressing one last kiss to Dean’s lips, tears trailing down his own cheeks.

“Live for me, Dean,” he whispers, their foreheads touching. “Don’t you–”

“Don’t I what? Fuck, wait! Cas, I… I... fuck! Wait, wait, dammit, Cas, I lo–” Dean’s about to say it for the first time, yet Cas’ form fades into nothing before he can finish his confession, leaving Dean stranded alone in his childhood backyard, punching the wood of the porch. “–ve… you.”

With a whisper on the wind, Cas is gone.

The world falls blue.

Cas’ sunset is burned into the sockets of Dean’s eyes.

\---

"Dean, whatever you do, turn on the TV, put on the news! Channel four! I swear to God, put it on right now!" Charlie shouts through the line, urging him to follow her instruction and Dean does, fumbling for the remote. His jaw drops in pure shock, and the phone cuts off seconds later, being dropped to the floor. For some reason, Dean doesn't think Charlie will mind that much.

Is that who...? It can't be.

That is John.

Holy fuck, that is John Winchester's fucking mugshot right there - on the news! Dean isn't hallucinating. It's all right in front of him. Playing on national TV, even.

_“John Winchester has confessed to the murders of both Castiel Novak and Samuel Winchester. He will face a life sentence in prison for his crimes." _

Dean doesn't do so much as give a flying fuck about who or what said that, because all he wants to do is touch the fucking sky.

John confessed to the murders.

John fucking owned up to killing Sam and Cas! Thank fucking God!

That man can rot in jail forever and Dean would no longer care. This is the least of what he deserves for the unforgivable shit John has done - in Dean's life as well as Sam and Cas' lives, but it'll do. They both deserved long, happy lives, and John had stolen that opportunity from them. It's only fair that John loses the rest of his life too, not that he was ever happy after Mom died. Dean's just glad to see him pay the consequences for his crimes, even if it's several months late. Better late than never, hell only knows.

"Oh, Cas, you sly son of a bitch," Dean grins, knowing this must've been what Cas meant when he said he'd done something for him and Sam. "God, I love you."

Having seen enough of the television, Dean switches it off, feeling a sense of victory welling up in his chest. John is paying for his crimes in prison, and Cas and Sam can rest at ease knowing their killer has been punished. There’s a giddy leap in Dean’s chest as he slips outside, fiddling with Cas’ ring. It now adorns his index finger, alongside Mom’s silver band. He can hear children playing next-door, taking advantage of the warm, clear weather. The trees rustle sweetly in the evening breeze, green and full of life.

“Rest well, you two.” Dean says to the blooming sunset sky as he rocks back and forth on the swinging chair in Sam’s garden, glassy eyes trained on the colourful inferno of the dusk.

God, he misses Cas. He misses Sam. Yet, they both have found their peace at last, and that’s all Dean could ever ask for. They’re watching over him now, like a pair of guardian angels set upon his shoulders. Dean can feel their presence in the prickle of gold-flecked sunlight washing over his skin, in the dew of the midsummer air, in the contented silence.

If Dean has learned anything, it’s that life and death are intertwined in numerous ways. Ghosts live among us as personified whispers of the past. They are not something to fear, but to guide. From one life to the next, do they wander, back and forth, back and forth.

Sam and Cas are anything but dead.

They live on in his memory, hidden in the little things. It’s inevitable that Dean will join them one day, shot home in a ready-made cannon, stark amongst the backdrop of a painted sunset. As with every lived life, he’ll arrive with stories to tell and questions to answer, to ask the starry multitude, and Dean will be reunited with his brother and the man who would’ve been the love of Dean’s life.

Maybe he was.

Cas promised he’d wait for Dean on the other side, and Dean doesn’t intend to return to him empty-handed. He deserves no less. Armed with a double-edged reason to carry on despite the relentless pain that follows him, Dean looks to the sky and breathes a silent vow.

He’ll find a way to keep on living.

For them.

\---

_the end._

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy! How are we? Not too choked up, I hope? I'm about to launch into the fanfic version of the closing credits, so feel free to bow out whenever. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Here we go. 
> 
> Starting off, I'm offering the greatest praise to my beta, [Grace](https://zeangelsgrace.tumblr.com/), thank you to the moon and back for all of your cute comments and encouraging words; for your unwavering faith in me, and for being so willing to help me in a time of need. If it weren’t for you posting this fic from the other side when my Internet conked out, I wouldn’t be here venting over a keyboard.
> 
> To my favourite sprint-team, [Guardian](https://guardiannight.tumblr.com/), [Angela](https://invictanimi.tumblr.com/), [Threshie](https://threshasaurus-writes.tumblr.com/), & [Solus](https://soluscheese.tumblr.com/), thank you for working beside me and for being there for me during these trying times! Thank you, [Kitty](https://kitmistry.tumblr.com/), for being a voice of reasoning for me when I was having troubles with the bang. You’re all so talented!  
To the PPB queen, thank you, [Pie](https://little-crazy-misha-minion.tumblr.com/), for all of your indispensable knowledge about the official happenings around missing persons and murder. We sure wove a dark backstory for Cas’ passing, didn’t we? Yikes.  
To my tumblr pals, thank you for rooting for me. I hope this fic lives up to your expectations, somewhat! To [Sarah](https://emblue-sparks.tumblr.com/), thank you for your infectious enthusiasm, and for being so helpful while dealing with the little niggles to do with posting. To [Ashley](https://jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets.tumblr.com/), big sis, thank you for your patience and your boundless support. 
> 
> Finally, to you, dear reader (if you read through this entire thing for whatever reason, wow?), thank you for giving this imperfect fic a chance. I know it has a lot of flaws, believe me, but I hope you got something from it. I'll most likely edit this fic into a non-Destiel version in the future. If you’d like to read my writing (including all of my run-on sentences) and this fic wasn’t for you, feel free to check out my [profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunei) for something more your speed.
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. Thank you all once again for reading. 
> 
> \- Kit [<3](https://kitsunecastiel.tumblr.com/) :)


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